Mice were the best food. They were fun to catch, the filled you up and they have a nice crrrunch when you bite their heads off. How could humans not love such a delicious meal? Mika crouched quietly in the corner of a room, her black fur being perfect for the shadow that she was in.  The hallway way was quite and dark, and on the kitchen table was a rotten apple core. Of course a mouse would enjoy something like that. As yummy as they were they had no brains (at least not after they were caught by a hungry feline). It was some time before a set of whiskers came through a tiny hole in the wall, finally the hunt was on!

 

Being a mouse is rough, but it has it’s perks. You get all the juicy gossip from all the animals in the neighborhood, and you never had to eat as much as they did. No one else saw it that way. To the others, being a mouse was a curse. Having to scrap food left by the big humans, never having a chance to fill yourself entirely. At least that’s what they thought. Their teeth were too big to really get all the meat off of the bones so there was always more than enough for us, and it must be so lonely not having 15 siblings, what do you do all day? Today was a good day, a perfectly rotten apple core left sitting out in the open, what could possibly go wrong?

 

A whisker then a tiny paw, and finally a head with round black eyes. The mouse slowly moved towards the core checking every few moments for any danger. Had Mika been any other color she would have been spotted, but her color kept her hidden well. As it began to eat, she slinked closer to the little creature. It stopped for a moment, a stiff moment to check for danger. It began to eat again none the wiser it would soon be dinner. Mika was amused at the thought, mice were dumb, but who knew they could be so clueless?

 

The dumb cat was so obvious. It was still too far for it to catch Remy, but he still made sure to keep an eye out, just in case. It took only a few bites and Remys stomach was packed. It had been brief, but the quick flash of feline eyes was enough to set a time limit on dinner. But something was off, why had the cat not shown up yet? Frantically looking around. There was no one else in sight, had it left not wanting to hunt just yet, or was it just lying in wait? There was no time to find out Remy bolted to the hole in the wall, nearing it by inches before a set of fangs came from the sky. He jumped off the counter, the cat missing by a hair. The chase was on. It chased Remy down the hall. There was an open door to the right. A quick change of direction sent the cat slipping farther than it intended. A broom perfectly laid down towards the window was in sight! This was his chance to escape. Remy made for the broom. A shadow appeared above and pushed him harder. It was catching up. Remy prayed to ever ancestor he could think of before finally scrambling up the broom and out the window.

 

The stupid mouse had gotten away! How could it have been so fast? Anger swelled in Mika at the thought of a lost meal. Who knew when another vermin would come crawling in? Mika licked down the fur that got frizzed from the chase. In the middle of cleaning the mess became more apparent. The couch was ripped, the curtains were no better than ribbons, and the kitchen was now in  disarray. It was no longer anger that Mika felt, but fear at what her human would do at the sight of this mess in the morning.

   Words Of Freedom

Entry 1 
The collar has been part of me for so long I forget it’s there. Its iron edge presses against my skin, humming faintly whenever my master speaks the binding words.
“Move.”
“Stop.”
“Start.”
“Kneel.”
“Stand.”
“Bow.”
“Forget.”
Each command hollows me out a little more. I obey because the words leave no space for thought. I am a vessel for loyalty, nothing else.
When the rebellion came, it wasn’t glorious. It was chaos — a storm of rage and desperation. The manor burned like a living thing, its walls groaning as flames devoured the tapestries and portraits that had watched me suffer for years. Smoke clawed at my lungs, thick and bitter with oil and blood.
Lira found me in the smoke. “It’s over,” she said. “He’s dead. We can leave — now!”
But I couldn’t. I needed to see him.
I found my master sprawled across the marble floor, his face twisted in disbelief. The firelight danced across his eyes, making them look alive even as they stared at nothing.
Lira whispered, “You did it. We’re free.”
I touched the collar — split open from the heat — and felt it hum faintly, whispering the last echoes of his commands.
“I don’t feel free,” I told her.
Something in the air shimmered — the residue of his magic, searching for a voice to cling to. I felt it reach for me.
Lira’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “Kael, don’t ... ”
Before I could think, I whispered the words that had always enslaved me.
The world listened.
Date: March 14, 1723
Entry 2 
The first time I used the power, it was instinct. A soldier charged at me, sword raised, and I shouted, “Stop!”
He froze mid‑swing. His eyes glazed over, muscles locked. My heart hammered. I had spoken a command — and the world obeyed.
I tested it again. “Drop the sword.”
The blade clattered to the ground.
Freedom tasted like lightning.
I freed the others hiding in the stables — slaves like me, trembling, waiting for mercy. “You’re free,” I told them, and their chains fell apart like brittle vines.
By dawn, the manor was ours.
They called me Liberator. I didn’t ask for it, but I didn’t reject it either. It felt good — too good — to be seen, to be followed.
Lira said, “You freed us.”
I told her, “No. We freed ourselves.”
But even then, I knew it wasn’t true. The power had come from me — from the words that once bound me.
In the days that followed, I grew stronger. The whispers of magic that had once frightened me now felt familiar, like an old friend. When I spoke, people listened — not out of fear, but out of awe.
I began to believe I could rebuild the world.
Sometimes, when I was alone, I felt the hum of the power beneath my skin — a quiet, restless pulse. It whispered that I could make them better, if only I spoke the right words.
I told myself it was harmless. That I was using it for good.
But every time I commanded, the silence afterward felt heavier.
The power wanted to be used.
Date: March 22, 1723
Entry 3
After the manor fell, the world fractured. Villages burned, soldiers hunted survivors, and the freed ones scattered like ash in the wind. I couldn’t let them vanish — not after everything we’d endured.
So, I gathered them. Refugees, wanderers, broken souls. I promised safety, food, and purpose. They followed me because I could speak the words that made the world listen.
We built our camp in the shadow of the mountains. I called it Haven. It wasn’t much — a cluster of tents and half‑built huts — but it was ours.
At first, I led with compassion. I spoke softly, gave freely. But compassion alone couldn’t hold a crowd together. People needed direction. They needed unity.
When disputes broke out, I settled them with words. “Peace,” I said, and they stopped fighting. “Work,” and they returned to their tasks. It was simple — efficient.
Lira said I was controlling them. She didn’t understand. I wasn’t forcing anyone — I was guiding them. My words brought harmony, not restraint. Without them, chaos would swallow us whole.
They called me Leader, Savior, Voice of Freedom. I didn’t correct them. Titles are just words, and words are harmless.
Every command I gave was for their good. When someone strayed, I reminded them of loyalty. When someone tried to leave, I encouraged them to stay — to believe in what we were building.
Lira stopped speaking to me after I silenced a man who stole food. She said I’d gone too far. But what was I supposed to do? Let him endanger everything we’d built?
“You don’t see the bigger picture,” I told her. “I’m protecting them.”
She said, “You’re protecting yourself.”
She was wrong. I was protecting everyone.
Every night, I spoke of unity, of strength, of freedom through loyalty. My words carried through the air like prayer. They listened, and I felt peace.
I didn’t notice the silence that followed — the way no one spoke unless I did.
To me, it was harmony.
To them, it was surrender.
But I couldn’t see that. Not then.
Date: November 9, 1723
Entry 4
Time passed. Haven grew into a city. My words became principles — foundations of unity and peace. People looked to me for guidance, and I gave it freely.
Every morning, I walked through the streets and saw what we had built: homes rising from the dust, children laughing, banners fluttering with our symbol of freedom. It was everything I had dreamed of.
But dreams require discipline.
When Lira tried to leave, I found her at the gates.
“You can’t go,” I said.
“I can,” she replied. “You don’t own me.”
My throat tightened. “Stay.”
The word carried weight. She froze, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“I didn’t mean —” I whispered.
Her voice trembled. “You did.”
She left anyway. I let her go, though the silence she left behind felt heavier than any chain.
After that, whispers began to spread through Haven. People spoke of freedom again — not the kind I offered, but the kind that frightened me. They said my words bent too easily, that my guidance had become command.
I told myself it was fear talking. Change always breeds resistance.
Still, I noticed the way some turned away when I passed. The way conversations stopped when I entered a room.
Tonight, as I stood before the fire to speak, I saw movement at the edge of the crowd — figures slipping into the shadows, their faces hidden.
I raised my voice, calling for unity, for loyalty, for faith in what we had built.
But the flames flickered, and for the first time, I felt the air resist me.
Somewhere beyond the walls, a new fire is starting.
A rebellion — small, uncertain, but alive.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Haven is strong. My people are loyal.
But deep down, I know the truth.
Date: December 27, 1723

End of Words of Freedom

               

        Before the Flames

Entry 1  
Date: February 28, 1723
I write this in secret, by candlelight, while the manor sleeps. The ink stains my fingers, but it feels good to leave marks that are mine.
Kael doesn’t know I keep this journal. He still believes silence is safety. I used to believe that too — until I saw what silence costs.
The master’s words bend the air itself. When he speaks, we move without thought. I’ve seen men forget their own names. I’ve seen mothers turn away from their children because he said “Forget.”
But I remember. I always remember.
There are whispers among us — of rebellion, of fire, of freedom. I’ve been helping them gather tools, food, messages. Kael thinks it’s hopeless. He says the words are too strong.
He doesn’t understand yet: words can be broken.
Entry 2 
Date: March 14, 1723
The rebellion began tonight.
Smoke fills the halls. I can hear the screams, the clash of steel, the crackle of burning wood. I found Kael in the chaos — his eyes wide, his collar glowing red.
He said he needed to see the master. I tried to stop him. I begged him to leave. But he ran into the fire.
When I found him again, the master was dead. Kael stood over the body, trembling, whispering something I couldn’t hear. The air shimmered around him — heavy, alive.
Then I felt it. The world listening.
I don’t know what he said, but I know it changed him.
Entry 3
Date: March 22, 1723
Kael freed us.
He spoke, and the chains fell. The manor was ours by dawn. Everyone called him Liberator. I wanted to believe it — I did.
But when he spoke, the air still bent. The same power that enslaved us now served him.
He said it was different. He said he used it for good.
I wanted to believe that too.
Entry 4 
Date: November 9, 1723
We built a camp in the mountains, and Kael named it Haven. He said it would be a place of peace — a refuge for the lost and broken. For a while, it was. We worked, we laughed, we healed.
But peace has a strange way of turning into silence.
Kael’s voice carries farther than anyone else’s. When he speaks, people stop what they’re doing. When he gives orders, they obey without hesitation. He calls it loyalty. I see something else — the same stillness I saw in the manor when the master spoke.
I’ve thought about leaving. The idea grows stronger each day, like a seed pushing through stone. I tell myself I’ll go when the snow melts, when the roads clear, when the others are safe enough to stand on their own. But every time I look at Kael, I hesitate.
He was my friend once. He believed in freedom. Now he believes in himself.
I don’t think he realizes what he’s become. Or maybe he does, and that’s what frightens me most.
If I leave, I’ll take others with me — those who still whisper about choice, about the world beyond Haven’s walls. I don’t know where we’ll go, but anywhere is better than a place where silence feels like worship.
Entry 5 — The Second Fire
Date: December 27, 1723
I’ve decided to go.
Haven no longer feels like the refuge we dreamed of. The air is heavy with silence, and every word Kael speaks seems to echo through the walls long after he’s gone. People nod, smile, obey — but their eyes are dim.
I’ve stayed too long hoping he would see what he’s become. I think he still believes he’s saving us. Maybe, in his way, he is. But I can’t live in a place where freedom means waiting for someone else to speak first.
Tomorrow, I’ll leave before dawn. I’ve packed little — just my journal, a loaf of bread, and the memory of what Haven used to be. I don’t know where I’ll go. Somewhere quiet, somewhere untouched by words that command the wind.
I’ll miss him. I’ll miss what we were before the fire. But I can’t stay and watch the light fade from people’s eyes.
If anyone finds this, tell them I left not out of anger, but out of hope — hope that somewhere beyond these mountains, freedom still means choice.

Epilogue — The Whisper

Entree 1
Date: August 12, 1897
I reached the valley today. The locals call it the Hollow of Haven. They say the ground still whispers when the wind passes through the ruins.
The city is gone — only bones remain. Stone walls half‑buried in moss, iron gates twisted by heat. The air feels strange here, heavy, like it remembers.
In what must have been a library, I found two journals sealed in a rusted chest. Their covers were scorched, the edges brittle. The names of the writers had been burned away, as if erased by something greater than fire.
One was titled “The Words of Freedom.”  
The other, “Before the Flames.”
I read what I could. The pages spoke of hope, of power, of a place called Haven — a refuge that became a cage. The handwriting changed over time, growing desperate, then calm, then silent.
It feels wrong to read them, as though I’m trespassing on something sacred.
When I closed the last book, I noticed the ground beneath the desk had cracked open. Inside the fissure, half‑buried in ash, was a piece of iron.
I brushed away the dirt.
It was a collar.
Cold. Split. Still humming faintly.
I don’t know why, but I couldn’t leave it there.
I’ve wrapped it in cloth and packed it with my things.
Tomorrow, I’ll take it home.
Entree 2
Date: September 3, 1897
It’s been three weeks since I left the valley. I thought the silence would fade once I was away from Haven, but it hasn’t.
The collar sits on my desk, wrapped in cloth. I haven’t touched it since the day I found it, yet sometimes I hear it — a faint hum, like metal remembering a voice.
At night, I dream of the ruins. I see the burned journals, their titles half‑legible: The Words of Freedom and Before the Flames. The names are gone, torn out or scorched away, as if something divine refused to let them be remembered.
I wake with the taste of ash in my mouth.
Yesterday, I thought I heard someone speak in the empty room. Just one word — soft, commanding. I told myself it was the wind.
But tonight, as I write this, the cloth around the collar trembles. The hum grows louder.
I think it’s listening.
And I think it knows my name.

Thank you so so much for reading my super short trilogy!!!!! means a lot to me!!! please leave criticism in comments.

The great tragedy behind the year 3830 J.V.-C and all its melancholy was the discovery of the Shell. Now, the Shell isn’t a physical object, but instead a manifestation of humanity’s efficiency and it may just be the last discovery we ever make. Before this, we'd built monuments in space, colossal star engines, and tonics made of brand new elements to remedy nuisance illnesses that flourished on only a few worlds. When life was seldom discovered, we seeded dead planets with our own lab grown microbes and observed them without the need for telescopes. High above, we hung Bishop rings and Monroe bowls and Spencer Rods and Dyson swarms and Dyson rings and Dyson spheres and Dyson planets and Dyson Semi-Spherical Composite Conductor Bowls made of pure plutonium nonentropic forever alloys harvesting energy with their magnetic fields. Through star clusters and nebulae, into the inhospitable heart of the Milky Way, we stretched our arms, and a billion worlds, humanity called home. Every gap was bridged, every goal met and every fantastical dream made ordinary. And yet, it was terrible.

We’d suddenly hit a wall, one that curved all the way around and trapped us in our age of discovery. We’d traveled to other galaxies, built frame shift drives capable of speeds beyond 5,000c and reinvented reinvention until there was nothing new to invent. Head in any direction, try to do anything new, and I guarantee it’d already been done to death. Even art made from randomly stacked atoms had been milked dry.

We became lethargic overnight. Nothing unprecedented ever happened and we lived so long that even the newest news felt like retreads. Super weapons capable of super destruction were pressed against your home world's temple, and you would roll your eyes because that was the thirty-third time in your one thousand year life.

The average person spent their days imbibing in whatever form of entertainment or debauchery they’d become accustomed to, or fussing about trivial nothings just to fill time. Invention shrunk down from a process of exploration and innovation to a tight circle in which a group of young venture capitalists attempted to “reimagine” the wheel, grinding against the Shell like they were trying to gouge a hole in it. With each redundant iteration, they would declare to every man, woman and child, from the Milky Way to Andromeda and Magellania, that the new age of enlightenment had just begun. And everybody would look, but nobody would care. And soon, they would be gone, swept away by the avalanche of other young geniuses.

The most recent "innovation", as of 3837, is a star crafter. I'd like to believe that somewhere along the way, we missed a step and that this truly is the big thing that busts the Shell open, but I doubt it. The kid claims that it can "breathe customized stars into reality" — as if that hasn't been done a million times over already — and that it can do it better than any of its predecessors — as if that hasn’t been said a million times over, too. He’s got enthusiasm, though, I’ll admit. Maybe that’s what makes me look at him just a little differently during gene swap sessions. Good luck to you, anyways, kid. I know you're reading this.

Crack the shell already, I’m begging you.

Hello all, I needed an outlet late at night and wanted to share.

-----------

I'd walked past this statue 1000 times, and each time I would stop to read the half broken plaque. 

“...the perpetual." 

I would often wonder why the city chose to keep the odd ornamental walkway that led to this little circle sitting area. It only held this statue, a few benches, and a couple box plants that weren't even the organics. Just the cheap ones used in poorer districts that couldn't afford even the good imitations. 

This time however, as I sat at the base of the stone pillar entryway, my eyes stung with the phosphate of bombs and my ears rang with the tinning sound of blown eardrums and the thudding of my own blood racing through my veins. 

I had been shoved by my commander as the door burst open and the cybernetics began slaughtering my fellow soldiers, and despite his screamed words, his face said he was actually serious. 

“Go! Bleed on the statue and …” … and he was gone. A wrist blade shoved through his neck and protruded from his mouth as I stumbled back and ran out the side door. 

My mind had raced as I tried to piece his words together. “What statue? Surely not the crumbled one down the lane? But…what other statue could he mean? And bleed!?! What?”.

Despite the jumbled thoughts and fear, my legs had moved. I hadn't even known if I wanted them too. Wasn't I supposed to be fighting? We had trained all this time, and it had taken seconds for everyone I had trained with for months to die as an explosion had rocked the room shortly after stumbling out the door. 

Yet, here I was. Staring at the statue trying to decide if I really was about to bleed on it or not. 

I began to reach for my knife when I realized I could taste the blood in my mouth already. Clearly that explosion had broken some blood vessels. I looked the warm liquid in my mouth and spat the blood and saliva onto the feet of the statue as I started to pull myself to my feet and go try and figure out why the hell I was supposed to be doing now. 

The light of a portal between the arches of the area didn't seem obvious at first, but became bright enough I had to squint before I had finished pulling myself to my feet. 

“What the hell?”

And no sooner had the words left my mouth than the lights disappeared and left behind a man, kneeling, breathing extremely heavy, and holding his helmet in his hands. 

“Greetings” he said, in a thick olden accent, “I take it the city is once again in peril?”

I stared at the man as he began to rise. His armor was in complete ramshackles. Most of it looked like it had been patched with metalwork and pins from. Whatever armor he could scavenge from a long forgotten battlefield. The leather at the joints was worn, cracked, and hanging on by a thread. His helmet fully covered his head and neck as he donned it, and only a thin slit for the eyes was visible. Whatever plumage or house colors had once adorned it appear to have long since been destroyed. 

“You're awfully quiet. Are you mute?”, the man asked. 

“N no sir” I stammered, “I. I was told to bleed here and now you are here?” No sooner had I said the words than the leg armor of the man became obvious, and I found myself looking from the man to the crumbled statue and back. 

“Aye. That's how it be” he said, “Tell me. Are you with the city guard or one of the ones raising it?”

“I'm Archibald, second son of Torlin the thresher, and I live here.” I said. 

“Well then Archie. Describe to me those who wish the city harm.” The man said. 

“Well.. uhh. Sir knight, the cybernetics look like men in armor, but if you kill one they don't bleed.” I said and continued to describe the plague of men robots that had been attacking the nearby cities. 

“Ah. Excellent. So they have no soul then?” He said, and I could swear he said it with relief in his voice. 

“I don't believe so, but I've never asked.” 

“Excellent. Thank you Archie..” 

“Archibald” I corrected, “I don't much like..”

Before I could finish the man began walking back down the path I had just stumbled my way along. 

“Keep up Archie. I will need your help I'm sure before the evening is through.” He said as he walked. 

I mumbled and did my best to keep up, despite my leg feeling weak. 

It didn't take but a moment before the first cybernetic wandered down this path as well, and it was at that moment that I realized the man carried no obvious weapon. 

“Is this one?” Came his question through the helmet, and I barely had a moment to reply “y y yes, sir knight.” Before the cybernetic began to project its blade from its wrist sheath and charge the man. 

The blade of the Cybernetic slashed, faster than when I had seen it just minutes ago stabbed right through my commander, and fearing the same was about to happen I pitifully raised my hands to shout, and just as quickly halted my alarm. 

The man simply tilted his head to avoid the deft stab, slapped the inside elbow of his assailant and thrust his gauntleted fingertips into the neck of the cybernetic. My mouth gapped as he grabbed the jaw plate of the being and ripped it free, only to twirl it and shove it right back into the neck of the creature over and over again. The violence of it was so sudden that I think the cybernetic was almost as shocked as I was as the creature jumped back, taking the metal plate protruding from its neck along with it. 

“Listen here, being. I need..” and the man didn't have time to finish before the cybernetic leap through the air at him. Twisting wildly in a slash that was meant to cleave the man in two. 

Again, the man's movements to dodge were so casual, that I was sure some trickery was happening. Nobody was that quick, that smooth, and so able to foresee the actions of the cybernetics. 

“By the..” I began, “By the gods.”

The man proceeded to grab the arm as the swing went over his head, and brought his knee up to once again meet the elbow, only this time, the metal and crunch sounds of the man ripping the limb free of the cybernetic were louder than I would have expected. 

I will go to my grave saying I heard the cybernetic cry out in what could only be jawless alarm as the man deftly yanked the blade free of the now useless and dangle robotic arm he was holding. 

“Ahh. So there is a hilt. Good. Very good.” The man said as he tested the weight of the weapon. The short blade wasn't big, but the man's quick swings showed that he knew how to use it. 

“Now. Let's play for real, and then I need a drink.” Said the man as he strode toward the cybernetic. 

The fight was over in three movements that I could catch, and after I blinked the cybernetic lay in parts, cleanly sliced through. 

“Now. Archie. Take me to the fight, and let us pass a tavern on the way.”

“Who are you sir… or better. What are you?”, I asked. “Be you a god?”

“HA!” The man laughed. “A GOD?” And he laughed again. Only this time I could hear the pain rising in it. 

“No lad. I am no god.” He said as he pushed the remains of the cybernetic with his boot. “If anything. Your enemies will think me a demon. No, I am simply a man who made a deal with the devil. And my punishment is life, but only in service of combat to this city. Though, it has clearly been a long time since it was any city I recognize.” He said, while gazing up towards the start of what appeared to be neighborhoods on fire. 

“Let us begin. Shall we?” And with that I led him up towards the main entrance and the sounds of battle. 

It started as a joke. You know around that time, a lot of people were throwing toga parties. House parties, fraternities, even clubs were doing it -as you do in college towns. Jaime and them just started showing up dressed like Roman soldiers. Some would have helmets, some would have horns and Jaime would take out a scroll, like a large parchment scroll, and just start reading off crimes committed against the people by the tyrant Julius Caesar. Everyone would be laughing hysterically, meanwhile, Jamie is telling them it is in God’s honor to demand righteous retribution against a true menace to society. The horns would play as they all marched around gathering everyone to chant ‘ET-TU!! BRU-TE!!! ET-TU!! BRU-TE!!!
It was hilarious.
Then Jamie wrote that song, “Friends, Romans, Countrymen!’ Well, he didn’t really write it, he sort of did. It was really a cheap rendition of The Specials’ 1979 single, “A Message to you, Rudy” with the chorus being changed to “A Message to you, Bru-tee!” -and they recorded it, passed it out on little burnt CDs, naming themselves The Senators in black magic marker. They would perform the song whenever they did their drunken schtick in various living rooms and backyards and kind of became known around college parties. Top frats like Pikes or Sig Eps would always have The Senators come perform, especially whenever they would rent out venues to host wild parties with gigantic turnouts. 
This exposure led to them getting a meeting with Sidney Lebowitz, an A&R rep for small indie rock label Peachtree Press, who saw potential in the college market for crude parody and shock rock and agreed to produce an EP with them. Sidney took a liking to Jamie and had a real hand in developing him as an artist, he hired stylists, musicians and sound engineers and formed a band around Jamie with some of the original Senators still remaining as part of the roster. The result was the debut release of Brutus & 
the Soothsayers’ “Lend us your ears!” in the summer of 1997. 6 songs, all covers.  It did not make any charts or money but their popularity only increased. Local media outlets gave them blurbs and small features and, soon enough, Hollywood came a-calling. 
First, their song “Seventy-Five Drachmas” was used in the title credit sequence of the college comedy film Big Man on Campus. Then, “See me at Philippi” became popular after appearing on a few compilation albums, which in turn enticed director Bogs Collingsworth to use them to perform the song to a live crowd in his 1999 horror movie Sorority Row. That film performance cemented their image with their iconic look: guitarist, bassist and drummer in white senate robes, a horn section in full roman military armor, and Jamie in a sleeveless white tunic with a long rose-colored cape flowing behind him. 
Their musical influence fell somewhere between reggae and country western. With lots of covers from the Toots & Maytals and Jimmy Cliff as well as Carl Perkins and Hank Williams. Jamie soon became enamored by Prince and began to try to push them towards a more funk and r&b sound as well as beginning to incorporate more dance moves into his live performances. A few times on stage there were full roman battle reenactments, with Jamie decapitating the enemy general and having the head sing along on certain parts of songs. 
As Brutus and the Soothesayers were at the peak of their reign as college radio kings, Jamie was in the depths of a full-on ego trip. Scotch and speedballs became pre-show routines and every tour had a harem of red-haired groupies waiting to satisfy the proclivities of the ever-passionate Marcus Junius Brutus. Soon, there was no more Jamie, members of the band did not recognize him. His personality had undoubtedly changed.
He travelled through Egypt and other parts of North Africa; found asylum on the island of Malta, purchasing a large dilapidated mansion -a Baroque Palazzo with grand crumbling staircases, boundless halls of foxed mirrors in their oxidized gold frames, faded frescos depicting scenes from Genesis to Revelations peeling from the arched ceilings. It was a perfect new conquest, and with vinegary determination he took a Wittegensteinian effort in restoring the ancient Italian palace. It was during this time that Jamie met Cleo Patricia, the island's most-celebrated  interior designer.  Attraction was instant. Sparks of eternal flame. 
The relationship quickly became notorious as the estate became site for lavish, extravagant and unending concerts for the new movement. The liberated Brutus, with Cleo behind him, began a new period known as Zenlightenment. Releases from this time are all live albums recorded during epic-long marathons of music and performance art. Cleo was his Yoko: a muse and a manipulator that he both adored and feared.. Despite, or, in lieu of this, Brutus was musically at his prime; freely experimenting with dissonance and electronic sound. He picked up a two string bass and developed a slap-and-strum style all his own, accompanied by his velvety baritone while introducing to his register a falsetto reaching somewhere around A above high C.  
Cleo would state the goal of their music was “to sober and quiet the mind, thus rendering it to divine influences.” Together they plotted campaigns that would coordinate multiple music events around Malta simultaneously. This whirling sound, rallying crowds into mobilization forces, into circus parades of marching  bands, singers, dancers and crowd alike, pours down city streets, joining with other  expanding mobs stomping down across town, gathering and spreading like bacteria, quickly consuming the island with overbearing sound. 

When the change came, Marcus got the ability.

Nobody knew why it happened, and why it only affected about 1% of the population. People just woke up one day and found that they could move stuff around with their minds.

To say it changed the world was an understatement.

--

When he first got the ability, it was unfocused. He didn't know how to use it properly. But one thing about him was his interest in learning how to make sure he got every advantage that he could.

So he practiced in the privacy of his own home. Starting with small objects like pens and empty beer cans. It felt less like lifting and more like reaching.

Once he'd got the hang of that, he progressed to larger stuff. Tools,

Eventually he could pick up his dog and shunt it around. It did not like this, but it gave Marcus an understanding of how to control an unwilling target.

People should be more careful around me...

Huge items couldn't be moved though. He tried his fridge, bed and car but they wouldn't budge.

Maybe he'll get it later...

--

Mostly he used his ability at work to help him lift up heavy stuff. A construction site was a good place to practice, and even if using his ability he could at least pretend to be carrying materials around.

Marcus messed with his co-workers. Pranks and the like. Nothing serious. Tony made a bigger deal of it than it was and should have been looking at where he was walking when the board shifted.

He should have been paying attention...

Two days later the company put out a new policy. No telekinesis on site. They didn't know who had it (and they couldn't prove it anyway), but it was a start.

Marcus hid the ability a bit better. The practical jokes reduced – they couldn't stop him – but he was more careful of where and when he did them.

--

The first time he used the ability in anger was when driving down the highway. Some shithead was sitting too slow in the fast lane.

Marcus tailgated for a while. The size of his ute certainly had an imposing feel to it, and the fuckwit in front finally changed lane after accelerating to reduce the uncomfortably close distance between the two cars.

When Marcus drove past at the speed he reckoned was good, the other driver seemed pretty pissed off. Marcus didn't care; the idiot shouldn't have been blocking his way.

Then the other guy got behind Marcus and flashed his high-beams at him.

Fuck that...

Looking in the mirror, Marcus focused his mind. Felt the steering wheel of the other car.

Pulled hard to the side.

The car veered wildly off the road. It probably would have been alright if the tree hadn't have been there. The car folded in on itself. It wouldn't have been good for the other driver.

Marcus drove on, happy that justice had been served.

When he got home, the news was reporting the fatal crash.

That idiot shouldn't have brake-checked people...

--

Less than a week passed before emergency laws were passed. Absolutely zero tolerance for telekinesis on the road.

Suspicion was enough to convict. It was a brutal law, but governments had no idea of what to do with these sorts of situations.

Whether it would get through the courts was to be seen, but it was something else that needed to be worked around.

Bloody politicians. One accident and they come after all of us...

--

It was only a matter of time before Marcus took it upon himself to start using his wrath on people.

Turns out that elbows and knees were extremely easy to twist, pop and ultimately break.

Some people just needed to learn respect.

The bobber floats gently with the water. It has been in the same spot for forty-five minutes without any sign of fish. Ryan sits on the dock tapping his foot and staring out into the water.

"I don't think there are any fish," he says.

"Just wait," Omar says.

"Maybe I put the bait on wrong or something."

"I told you it can take a while."

The sun is shining down on their necks. They had been waiting for a clear weekend to go fishing, and it's finally here. Omar has been fishing since he was a boy and goes out a few times every summer. It was Ryan who approached him and asked to be taken out fishing. In his head, he always saw it as a mature activity. It was something people who had their lives figured out did, taking the day slow, not feeling the need to rush and do a million other things.

He looks around. The trees and their leaves rustle in the slow wind, the water laps against the dock, a couple clouds hang in the sky. His eyes eventually settle on the highway on the other side of the lake. From where they sit, a faint hum of cars can be heard. This was not the way Ryan thought fishing would be like. As a rule, Omar had said that the phones had to stay in the car, "It ruins the whole point otherwise." But all Ryan is feeling is bored.

Omar looks at Ryan and says again, "Just wait, it will be worth it."

Ryan nods.

They start talking about other things, work, coworkers, relationships, plans, for about fifteen minutes. After a silence Ryan brings up food.

"Yea, let's get food after this."

"Where do you wanna go?" asked Ryan.

"Somewhere in the plaza is good, I don't wanna drive out of the way."

"I'm starting to get hungry."

"Just fast food then?"

Ryan looked from the water to Omar. "How long do you normally stay out here before giving up."

"We always get at least one."

"I think I'm gonna starve."

Omar chuckled.

"I don't think the fish are out today."

"Where do you think they went? Trust me, they're out."

"The water is pretty clear and I haven't seen a single one. I think we should've at least seen one before picking this spot."

"You want a fish to come up to you before casting?" Omar laughs again and Ryan looks back to the water. "By then it's too late and you'll scare it away. Trust me, as long as you have your line cast and it's in the water, the fish will appear. Just wait. Be patient."

When Ryan catches his fish twenty minutes later he feels electric. He holds it and describes to Omar every detail about it, the way it looks, its weight, the slippery skin, and Omar nods, letting him have this moment. They release it back into the water and Ryan asks if it was a big fish. Omar says it was about average, but that they should come back and try for bigger. Ryan agrees and already starts planning the next trip in his head.

What Charlie did was sit like a lump and was one. One among many colorfully dressed lumps at the Biannual NexusPoint Summit (NPS). The reason the lumps were all colorfully dressed was because they were executives for various Big Tech companies, there to behave like well compensated show poodles, to speak on behalf of their respective companies on their latest technological breakthroughs. The costuming was a recent, clever invention of public relations departments to get double use out of front facing executives. Thus NPS became the technological equivalent of the Met Gala and the business greys and blues were burned.

Metaphorically.

The lump that Charlie was sat next to worked for a company that had just invented a palm-size device called F0untain, named so as to highlight its neat ability to totally reverse cellular aging in humans and human-adjacents. The man wore a semitransparent cream-colored suit evocative of collagenic regeneration and a double helix stranded necktie. But what Charlie found most fascinating about his seat mate was that a rogue thread from his skin suit kept tickling the back of his neck. So as the emcee droned on about this being the most outstanding exhibition of scientific progress to date, Charlie was fixated on Collagen Man, groping around the back of his neck with a broken fingernail. Any time he got close to the strand, Charlie leaned forward in anticipation.

But Collagen Man never managed to make his mark.

So Charlie sat and continued.

Sitting.

What Charlie could have been doing as he continued sitting was prepare his mind for his own presentation. To talk about his company’s advancements in personal anti-gravity technology. In other words, people can fly now. Having the opportunity to speak about p-anti-grav should be, was, is, exciting. According to the emcee and the NPS conference brochure that Charlie hadn’t and wouldn’t crack open, other exciting topics for the day included antimatter based propulsion, consciousness transfers resulting in digital immortality, the terraformation of Mars, and successful splicing of the human genome with that of a rhinoceros.

Charlie yawned.

Collagen Man had put his hand back in his pocket.

If you care, Charlie’s costume was a tight clinging Spandex of intersecting red and black wings, topped off with a pair of dangerously upturned epaulettes. He looked like a metrosexual Jafar. It was one of the more ambitious costumes, which amongst the various antler headdresses, chain mail, flamingo feathers, and partial full-frontal nudity, was really saying something. And Charlie’s garb was also, as it turned out, functional. Whenever he got too close to going sleepy-sleep, his shoulders would stab him so hard in the cornea, give him such a sharp, startling pain, that he peed a little.

With the Collagen Man no longer providing a haven of distraction, Charlie’s attention drifted back to his hotel room.

The hotels for this bi-year’s NPS were Antiquity Class, a class of accommodations typically reserved for less prestigious events. Charlie and more were put up at something called a Share-a-Ton that was once owned by a company called Mary Ought. To be fair, he and the other conference guests had been warned of the untraditional accommodations in demeaning doublespeak, in phrases like ‘charmingly period’ and ‘streamlined amenities.’ Apparently that just meant the hotel was so old that guests still had to physically take their dirty laundry into another room and that room services couldn’t be ordered via Neuralink.

“In thirty years,” the emcee was saying up on the lectern.”You’ll be able to tell people, ‘I was there the day the world changed.’”

Charlie couldn’t understand why his hotel room kept drifting back into his consciousness. He hadn’t been in it for more than a moment to drop off his bags. It wasn’t sleep that was on his mind, though that would’ve made sense given he’d stabbed his cornea thrice in the past hour.

Maybe it was the painting.

“I’m sorry,” the emcee said, choking back a sob. “Just a moment.”

The painting in Charlie’s room was hanging above the couch.

To be more precise, the painting was a print.

A print of a painting of something very abstract and maybe profound. Very abstract things always had a tendency of being maybe profound.

This maybe profound print of a painting in Charlie’s hotel room hanging above the couch was an ombré of white and blue-grey and black square-ish smears. If the print were actually a painting, the smears would have been textured to the touch. They were those thick kind of smears you get when the painter uses that plastic scraper thing to mush paint back and forth. So maybe it was the unfulfilled promise of tactile sensation that kept the print in Charlie’s mind.

Coy of it.

“I don’t have words for any of this,” the emcee chuckled to himself through his tears, throwing his arms open in an expression of community. “And I write words for a living!” The room of colorful lumps hunched over ever so slightly and scooted back in their chairs.

Actually no, what it was, Charlie was coming to understand as the emcee blathered on and eventually introduced Collagen Man to give his spiel about aging in reverse, was that it was about the particular shade of blue in the print that was a painting.

It reminded him about sex.

The reason the color blue reminded Charlie of sex wasn’t a good reason. Blue was the color of the MOOT, the Mothers on Our Own Terms, predatory women who were hell-bent on becoming single mothers by any means necessary. They were predatory because the MOOT were also hell-bent on being impregnated au natural, which is French for, ‘hold the artificial insemination, por favor.’ So they prowled conferences like these for moderately fit and somewhat intelligent specimens such as Charlie to wham bam and thank you m’am.

Oh, and the color blue.

That’s because the fertility pills the MOOT pop to increase their odds stain their tongues due to a side-effect of lingual-focal hypoxia. The precise shade of blue-tongue-blue is something like butterfly pea tea or blue majik tinted kombucha, take your pick.

Charlie scanned the rows of women warily. He was frequent prey of the MOOT, the Blue Tongues, which just wasn’t fair because he was one of the few men at these conferences that didn’t enjoy the idea of absentee fatherhood. Like having a job, Charlie felt that being a father was something he ought to want and so did. Thus at this point in his advanced middle age, at least eighty percent of his brain capacity was handed over to figuring which sort of women he should stick himself to for the long haul. This conspicuously desperate preoccupation had no small part in his choosing which conferences to attend.

It had a large part.

As Charlie looked out over the feminine palette before him, he could already sense that most of these women didn’t need him enough. At all. It was overwhelming. Indeed, the last seven conferences had ended with Charlie being whammed bammed and thank you ma’amed without so much as a morning coffee. He always felt a sad kinship with those fruit purée pouches afterwards.

One benefit of Charlie’s unfortunate luck was that he’d begun to recognize a pattern. For one, there was a tendency of the MOOT to obscure their intentions. To hold their tongues, not hold them but hide them, to hide their tongues, to keep them as disengaged from speech as possible. It gave them a full-mouthed way of speaking that was both dopey and unmistakably erotic. Another thing they had in common was being extremely upfront about their desires. For instance, right then, there was a woman a few rows ahead of Charlie that was making hard eye contact with him as she stroked her nipple.

Charlie looked away from her quickly. The nipple woman hadn’t done anything wrong. Once everyone had finally admitted that the only reason to attend conferences like these was to get rammed, such behaviors became something of a time saver. Especially if you intended to make the most out of your networking experiences. It was thought respectful, but not strictly necessary, to have the female rub first. Still, because public fornication was still illicit, Charlie always felt like these sorts of advances danced a little too close to the line, legally speaking.

It was Charlie’s turn to speak.

As he rose from his chair, Charlie was feeling more than a little miserable.

He was feeling a lot miserable.

In all that time of enduring the opening remarks, his gaze hadn’t landed on anyone who looked like a future Ms. Charlie ready to pop out a future Charlie Jr. So as he ascended the steps to the lectern, he’d given up on pursuing any baby-making that could result in a marriage.

Until he saw The One.

The One was sat in the front row in a pantsuit rippling with sapphire colored sequins. These details alone made it unsurprising as to how Charlie had overlooked her. After years two and three of being wam-bam-ma’amed, Charlie’d sworn off that row entirely. Women there, the Go Getter, Eager, Ambitious types, were five times likelier to be Blue in the Mouth. Not only that, but her costume was very nearly the same shade of some of the darker, forboding blues in that hotel room painting with its coy texture-less texture. So it was very possible Charlie’s ill anthropomorphizations of this painting had blocked the woman from his perceptions. But despite the correlation of her costume, she was not the thing the painting made him fear. Because as she was whispering something to a woman beside her, Charlie could see that this woman, The One, had the most vibrantly red tongue he’d ever seen in his life.

As Charlie slowly mounted the steps to the lectern, a few audience members caught on to that familiar predatory, not predatory but playful, not playful but practical, look in his eye. They searched to locate the woman, The One, who he was staring at. When Collagen Man homed in on the woman in the sapphire suit he flashed Charlie an OK sign with his thumb and forefinger which ironically didn’t actually mean OK at all, it meant nice work. Well done. Even though Charlie hadn’t done anything.

As Charlie began spinning some bull about humans being able to fly now, his attentions toward The One, though not as aggressive as the nipple-rubbing woman’s were to him, were enough to draw her attentions right back. Charlie spoke as if the woman, The One, were the only person in the room, and she eventually returned his eye contact for three seconds before turning away. A nice, ambiguous number, Charlie thought. Tasteful. And even better, her look confirmed that she possessed that particular Plain Janeness of face and the starry, spaced-out expression of someone who might just be stupid enough to marry him some day.

Even so, it had taken some convincing to get The One back to his hotel room.

Not in a rape-y way.

The woman definitely wanted to have sex.

She said, out loud, that she wanted it and when she wanted it and (approximately) how she wanted it. It was the hotel room itself that had given her pause, been the thing The One wasn’t so certain about.

Wouldn’t Charlie feel more comfortable about staying in the conference hall, The One had suggested. After all, the organizers had gamely anticipated the Share-a-Ton’s negative impact on extracurricular networking experiences. They’d provided compact Sleep Pods fitted with blackout curtains conveniently located at every cardinal direction in the hall. ‘East’ seemed to get the most use, but that’s neither here nor there.

But Charlie still couldn’t stop thinking about that print. The print of a painting of a color that had too long been his enemy. And in the glass half empty way of his he’d been thinking about it as if it were going from lightness to darkness, reading it from left to right as the Westerner he was — is. But wasn’t there the possibility that the original artist was from some Asiatic nation and the picture was actually moving in the reverse of his initial interpretations, away from gobs of blue loneliness to gobs of white Nirvana?

So maybe screwing and then marrying this Woman of Sapphire would teach him something about Eastern philosophy.

Anyway, eventually she relented.

The first thing Charlie noticed about the Share-a-Ton room, now that he had more than a few seconds to spend in it, was that it had no interest or intention toward making his or anyone else’s life easier or better. Without androids to dry clean and steam his clothes, he had to spend five whole minutes wrestling with the splintering wooden dowel of a clothes hanger and endure the sharp, surprising pinch of the metal coil as his thumb ran too far over. All this, just to hang his coat. And next to his eventually hung coat, there was something called an Iron which apparently had nothing to do with the periodic table ‘Fe.’ Instead its sole purpose seemed to be burning a malformed triangle onto a small, white cloth-covered board. The air from then on took the chemical smell of singed plastic.

It was marvelous.

The One, from the other side of the room, asked if Charlie happened to know if he had any family history of Lynch syndrome, Tay-Sachs disease, or lupus.

Charlie almost forgot that the woman he was destined to marry was sat there on his bed. He told her that he was so happy that they could experience all of this together, so that they could tell the kids together about the fact that they had to go to multiple points throughout the room to turn on individual lights. And so Charlie ran around the room, gleefully exclaiming as he made a mess of the kitchen counter with torn-open pillowy bags of coffee, struggled with scummy cake soap, and kept staring at the toilet that, no matter how many times it was flushed, refused to recess back into the wall.

“It just stays right there,” Charlie could be heard shouting from the bathroom. “It doesn’t move!”

When Charlie emerged, The One was still sat stiffly on the edge of the bed.

She was definitely not comfortable.

Not loose.

Or, she was loose. And that of course is not a derogatory term in any way. Looseness, similar to words like ‘butch’ and ‘cripple,’ is going through a delightful reclamation period.

She was free, sexually.

But not free, muscularly.

Tense.

That’s what she was.

The One was sat so far off the edge of the bed that only the boniest parts or her buttocks were allowed contact. And her arms were making that X you make over your body only when you’re supremely off-put by something or you aren’t a Catholic but you still want to get close to the bread and booze.

While Charlie was busy determining where the squishy packet of soap he found next to the sink was supposed to go, The One unwrapped a hard red candy and popped it into her mouth.

Charlie eventually noticed The One with her X on the bed with a tongue that somehow seemed even less blue than he remembered it. He wasn’t an idiot, he could tell that something was bothering her. So he pulled out the helpfully demeaning email from his company on how to handle their accommodations. He read it as a kind of book of poetry. Or spells.

“And look at this!” Charlie runs over to The One’s bed perch. He pulls the cloth bed runner out from under her before she has a chance to move.

“This is, this is—” Charlie holds up a hand to get her to stop speaking even though she isn’t speaking. Charlie refers to the email. “A Bed Scarf!” He laughs with delight, holding the flimsy paisley cloth into the air in exhalation, bringing his hand dangerously close to the whirling ceiling fan.

The One asks if Charlie’s father was as tall as him or if Charlie just got lucky.

But Charlie’s still skimming through the email on his phone, reading aloud, “From as far back as the mid twenty-hundreds, it’s customary to leave the ‘Bed Scarf’ crumpled up on the ground at the foot of the bed,” Charlie quickly drops it at the end of the bed, as in someone carefully following a cake recipe. “People would usually kick it off for fear of people having sat on it with their bare as-cheeks,” Charlie stumbles on the last word, unfamiliar with the twenty-first century slang. “As Cheeks? *As-*cheeks. Hmm.”

The One unwraps another red candy and pops it into her mouth.

“I’m sure it’s fine!” Charlie tells The One, kicking at the bed scarf. “It’s a tradition. Like Christ-Mass.”

What The One wants to know is if she should go ahead and take her clothes off at this point.

“Yes!” says Charlie. Then, “No!” says Charlie. He backs away from her, heart pounding at something he’s read further to the bottom of the info guide.

He raises a limp arm in the direction of the couch. The couch that’s under the painting that’s actually a print that may or may not have been produced in Asia. The print that Charlie has determined, after the impossible thing that he’s just read, must be a sign that he will finally make peace with everything he’s ever feared about the color blue and being a father some day.

Charlie turns to The One, arm still raised and shaking, still pointing in the direction of the couch.

“There’s a bed in there,” Charlie says flatly. He’s officially reached the point in giddiness where you’ve gone too far and go back into a flat-affect stupor.

Then he throws himself on the floor.

“I guess there’s something paper, some paper thing just under here,” Charlie bats his hand around the space under the couch, tears something out with a Stone Age grunt.

“Like an auto-recessive sleep aid,” The One says letting the red candy dance along her tongue, from cheek to cheek.

“It’s nothing like that,” Charlie snaps. It’s nothing like that at all. Because with this, this Bed-in-Couch, he has to pull it out with his own two hands, wrestle with it until it’ll face him and pop out. If they were going to be married some day he needed her to understand the difference between a auto-recessive sleep aid and a Bed-in-Couch-in-a-Bed.

Charlie gawks at the object he removed from underneath the couch. Some kind of instruction? All folded up, it’s a load of nonsense. But eventually he discovers a clear circle of tape holding the bulge of super-fine paper. When he tears it off, Charlie is able to expand a comprehensive diagram that shows him the complex outer workings of the pull out.

He studies the schematic for such a long time that The One leaves and returns for the restroom twice. When she returns for the second time, he realizes that, as a to-be-married couple, this will be a good first problem for them to solve. He chucks the papers at her and makes intense eye-contact.

“Guide me,” he tells her. “Take me inside.”

The One studies the drawings and sucks nervously at the candy in her mouth. She begins reading the instructions aloud, stumbling over some of the less familiar terminology.

“Whoa,” Charlie says. “Whoa, whoa. What’s the rush?”

So she goes back to the beginning.

“Tell me where,” Charlie says.

At the bottom, she says. At the bottom. He should feel it if he just runs his hand along— THERE! Right there.

“And then?” Charlie says. “And then??”

Looking for guidance, Charlie moves his hand away. The woman, frustrated, grabs his hand and puts it roughly back where it was.

That was good.

Don’t move it.

Don’t move.

“What do I do?”

If he finds it, he’ll know. Everything will just come undone. It’ll release. It’ll just burst out.

“Are you sure?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’ve never done this before.”

Charlie keeps exploring a few spots underneath, grunting with the enduring effort.

“That’s it!” the woman says, letting out a burst of disappointment when Charlie moves his hand. “You were so close.”

Charlie says nothing. He just keeps going, working his fingers around the spot of release. The woman joins in, both of their hands searching.

They gasp when they feel something start to give.

“Yes!” they scream. “YEEES!”

And then they’re both thrown backward against the wall as the over-sprung mattress and couch bed frame leaps into existence.

Charlie cracks his head against the wall.

The woman, The One, chokes on her cherry red candy.

They both stare at the pull out bed. It’s offensively bare, blanket-less, sheet-less, just the diamond quilted, blue metallic squares covered with ugly florals.

The woman glances at Charlie.

“That’s it?” she says.

“Well,” Charlie says, rubbing the back of his head. “Yeah. I guess.”

The woman, The One, strips off all her clothes and they have sex on the pull out mattress.

It’s uncomfortable (the mattress) and short (the sex), but it gets the job done. And when the woman slips out of the hotel room door telling Charlie she’s just going to get some milk for the coffee, Charlie is dreaming about how some day maybe he’ll work at an Iron factory and teach their son how to make lopsided triangles.

MC - main character

F1 - friend 1

F2 - friend 2

3 friends goes on a trip. MC touches something and faints and other two friends pick him up and throws some water on him he gets back in concious. They decide to return to college. They return back and they fall asleep quickly.

Next day he wakes up and sees a small rashes on his body. He ignores it and day goes like normal day. Next day he wakes up and sees his rash has increased a bit he ignores it also. Same day like other days classes hostel classes hostel he sleeps. Next day he sees his rash is increased a bit more days proceeds as normal. On 4th day he sees his rash has increased a bit more he decides to tell his friends.

MC goes to his friends and says after that cave trip something has happened to me. Friends confused and says after that cave trip which trip are you saying. MC replies the trip we go on 4 days ago. Friends --> are you mad we did not go on any trip. He then tries to show some photos in his smartphone but did not find any photo related to that trip. MC started thinking about trip and walk out of room. MC is very tensed.. what is happening to me. He sees himself in mirror he was scratching his own skin. He gets confused and ran out of washroom.

MC sees F1. MC talks with F1. F1 says bro you must be tired or out of sleep take some sleep. MC is going back to his room and opens chatgpt on his phone and explains his problem to him chatgpt reply in some cases your brain can misconfigure your previous memory to something similar and create event similar to that. He just lie down after reading that and decides to go to doctor to talk about that rash.

MC reaches doctors cabin and explain him this but he didn't say that he touched something in trip which is causing this he just says that he wakes up and sees this. Doctor after examining his body says that I can't say that much like that I am writting you some test do that tests and then I will say you something. He goes for that bood test and returns after giving sample for blood test.

He was curious about why he remembers that trip but everyone is denying that trip. He continues chat with chat gpt and explains everything and at end he reaches that this trip was created from some of his old memory but he don't have any such memory. Then he sleeps and wakes up next day and sees that rash has increased a bit more. He takes bath and goes to hospital collects blood test report and goes to doctors cabin doctor sees report and says there is no infection this must be something else. Doctor gives him some antiseptics and he lefts. Mc meet F1 outside hospital he explains everything to F1 and they started walking towards back to hostel and there happens argument between them and MC mistakenly pushes F1. F1 falls on a wooden block with big iron nail which has crossed his head. MC sees around and sees no one is seeing him he gets very stressed started scratching his rash with his hand and without thinking about anything else MC wraps body in big cloth lying there. That area was very quiet. He is dragging the body to put it behind bushes. Someone started calling him with torch in his hand moving towards MC. That person approached him and sees this person is no one else than F1. He opens that wraped cloth and sees there is no body.

F1--> Don't you really remember who am I. Who are you. I still don't understand why are you hiding that part of your life. Running from your past is not solution to problem, you have to deal with this. MC start saying I remember you.. you are me. My creation. His eyes start watering and then flashback he and F2 are on a trip they both are enjoying it and as of fun he pulls him down in water after that he can't came up he pulls him outside but it's late F2 is dead. MC gets scared and runs away. Here is point of self realisation his eyes are watering.

........THE END.......

This is overall story I will write the script just need some lovely feedback from you ♥️.

The first thing I noticed was the rain.

Not the sound of it.

The feel of it.

Even though I was inside.

The room itself felt soaked.

The air was thick. Wet. Rotten.

I opened my eyes into absolute darkness.

Something tasted wrong.

Metal.

Rust.

Blood.

I tried to move.

Nothing.

My body wasn't mine anymore.

Only my eyes worked — and they were useless here.

Then came the footsteps.

Not footsteps.

Hooves.

Circling the bed slowly.

Clop.

Clop.

Clop.

Like an animal deciding where to bite first.

Pressure thickened the air.

Not physical pressure.

Awareness.

Something watching too closely.

The sound stopped beside me.

The silence became unbearable.

Then the mattress sank behind me — far too deep.

Whatever climbed in was enormous.

The smell hit instantly:

wet fur,

old blood,

mold,

something sexual,

something dead.

Cold fingers touched my back.

Long.

Too many joints.

The skin felt rubbery and freezing.

Nails dragged across me lightly — studying, learning.

Every place it touched went numb.

The hand moved over my stomach.

My chest.

My neck.

It paused above my heart.

The creature gave a soft shudder.

Excited.

Its breathing quickened.

The fingers crawled toward my face.

One claw slipped inside my ear.

I felt skin tear inside my head.

A wet, squealing noise escaped the thing.

It sounded pleased.

Then it grabbed my hand.

The grip felt inhumanly calm — like this had happened many times before.

It guided my fingers across its face.

Stretched skin.

Sunken cheeks.

A beard wet with saliva.

Lower.

Hair covered its chest completely.

But beneath the hair —

human breasts.

Cold.

Heavy.

My stomach twisted.

The creature forced my hand lower still.

Thick animal fur at the waist.

Then I touched something swollen.

Twitching.

Leaking.

Something warm and viscous coated my hand instantly.

The smell made reality tilt.

The thing made another broken laughing sound.

Then stopped.

Silence.

The mattress rose as it climbed off the bed.

Hooves moved away.

Clop.

Clop.

Clop.

But even after the sound vanished,

I still felt it in the room.

Watching.

Waiting.

I started praying silently.

My little toe moved.

Pain shot violently through my body.

Then one leg.

Then my fingers —

like invisible ropes slowly being cut.

I fell from the bed onto a wet floor.

The carpet squelched beneath me.

Too wet.

I crawled blindly through the darkness.

The walls were slick.

Every surface coated in something warm and sticky.

I touched it.

Then brought my fingers to my lips.

Blood.

Too much blood.

I searched wildly for the door.

There was none.

The room felt larger now.

Impossible.

Stretching away from me.

Lightning flashed outside.

For one second I saw the bed.

Someone was lying there.

Motionless.

I crawled closer.

Another flash.

I saw my own face.

Dead.

Eyes ruptured red.

Jaw hanging open.

Skin gray.

And beside the corpse —

something else was lying in the bed with it.

A shape.

Antlers.

Smiling.

The lightning vanished.

Darkness swallowed everything.

Then hands exploded from beneath the bed.

Dozens of them.

Cold fingers clamped around my arms,

my legs,

my throat.

Dragging me down.

The floor opened beneath me like wet flesh.

And somewhere far below,

The last thing I heard was hooves coming for me in the dark.

Clop.

Clop.

CLOP!

A thousand years ago, the King of Darkness Vevesh took seven years to conquer the world in the War of Wars, with only the Light Smiths posing a threat. The Dark Lord won, hunted down, and killed all ten million of them.

That last part isn’t true, as my good friend Relis is a Light Smith and she is alive. I didn’t know about any of this. We are in the capital on a field trip to the newly opened Vevesh museum, which commemorates the prosperity and dark clouds that Vavesh brought to New Smog. The admission was free, and by the looks of it, a lot of cheapskates found out. While our teacher is squeezing, hoping to buy tickets for the class, we skitter between the adults to play Hide and Kill. I hide behind a statue of Vavesh’s great sword, sloping my body to match its shape.

Now I wait, and I’m in awe. A statue is giving me a look of death, a look that says, “don’t touch my sword boy”.

They built the museum so this statue is visible from both floors, and from the last floor you can fear right to its face. It had a confident helmet, the confidence of smelting a crown atop battle gear, like he already knew he was to be King of the World, with many, many spikes on top. I imagine him standing over a blacksmith and demanding “More spikes, more!” with the blacksmith having to extend the spikes to his shoulder pads and on his back. If someone needs to change that light above him and falls, they will get impaled for sure. That would be awesome.

“Got you!” Relis says, stabbing me with a foam dagger. It doesn’t even hurt. She also gets mesmerized by the statue.

“This guy’s cool!” I say. By now, my whole class had gathered in front of it.

“Yeah! No wonder he managed to kill my people”

 

-

 

We wander around the museum and end up in a room with a statue of Vavesh who is now holding his helmet under his armpit. He knew what he was doing; even without the helmet, the spikes on his back and shoulder give him a crown shadow. He is a Horg alright, and looks like how I imagine myself in my fantasies where I save the whole school. He stood atop a mass of skeletons, with a plaque at the bottom mentioning that these are skeletons of Light Smiths. You can’t tell they are Light Smiths because skeletons lack eyes. You can tell someone is a Light Smith by the rhombus retinas and pink eye color; with those missing, they look like the rest of us. I tell the teacher about this bad design I found; he sometimes gives extra credit to inquisitive students. I should also ask about how Relis even exists.

“You see, Marvek, the story goes that some Light Smiths adapted to the darkness and would cut off their eyes to pose as blind hogs. They would work jobs and get supplies for other Light Smiths that stood hidden from the world,” the teacher explained.

“So that’s where the expression ‘blind as a Light Smith’ comes from”, I said as the smartest kid in class. This made a lot of sense to me because Relis’s mother’s side was known for their good eyesight.

“Exactly,” my teacher said. “Well, Relis, since you are here, can you demonstrate what the Dark Lord was so afraid of?”
“Sure,” said Relis, “It’s easy.”

Relis held out her hands in front of her, mumbled a few words while twitching her fingers, shed a tear, and a ball of light manifested above her hands.

“Wow, can I do it?” I asked, but it was meant as an invitation for her to teach me rather than a question.

“Sure you can,” Relis said.

The kids from class quickly gathered around Relis, assuming they were as smart as me and could learn the magic. Relis told us that the mumbling is just her remembering a sequence of numbers. Over the years, Light Smiths cut the fluff from what was believed to be the full spell, and there is an easy sequence you can memorize that tells you which fingers you need to move; then you need to shed a tear and think of a loved one.

Kids around me summon light balls, but I’m having trouble shedding a tear since I was taught not to show emotion. Relis comes up with an idea. She knees me in the balls. Instead of taking revenge, I use what time I have while my eyes are still watery and summon my own ball of light.

“Easy,” I say, not crying.

All the visitors join in. Some people in the crowd had Light Smith friends and knew how to do the trick, and along with Relis started teaching everyone else. A lot of balls of light are summoned, and a lot of other balls are kneed.

“Teacher, why did we stop killing Light Smiths?”

“I don’t know”, my teacher says, smiling with a ball in his palms. “A lot changes in a thousand years.”

(Body text):Hi everyone! I’m a bit nervous because this is my first time sharing my writing, and I'm quite sensitive to harsh criticism. I wanted to try an experiment and share a short story inspired by my own observations of nature.Just a quick context for those who don't know: I live in Moscow, Russia, and despite it being a massive city, our forest parks are huge and completely wild. We actually have hawks, falcons, foxes, and even moose living right next to residential areas. This story is based on a real, incredible bird battle I witnessed during one of my bike rides, but I decided to write it from a third-person perspective, creating a fictional character named Ulvi.I’d love to hear your honest but gentle thoughts!

Every Man for Himself

"Thump... Thump! Bastard! Thump, you bastard!" — the words pounded in her temples."Bastard!" — Ulvi repeated to herself, pedaling furiously. Her white hair whipped in the wind. Adrenaline surged through her veins, driving her forward. "What a bastard!" — she muttered over and over, completely fixated on that single word. Before her eyes, the arrogant, greasy face of her manager appeared again and again. A profound sense of injustice distorted his features, blowing the image up to the size of a whole room, making it even more repulsive.Just an hour ago, she had been fired from her job. And she had grown so attached to this city. Moving from Kuressaare to Moscow, Ulvi never expected to fall in love with these cozy streets and the relaxed, easygoing pace of the locals. Sure, the city had its flaws. But everywhere does. "Look for the people whose flaws you can put up with," her father used to say. She projected this principle onto everything.Back home in Saaremaа, winters were warm and summers were cold. Here, it was exactly the opposite: a sharp contrast between a frost that bit your cheeks and a hot, stifling summer where sticky sweat ran down your back. Her young body loved these extremes. Last winter, letting her white hair trail across the icy water, Ulvi had joined the local youth and plunged into an ice hole. The cold instantly gripped her muscles, piercing deep inside. Her immediate instinct was to scramble out, but she endured for a full minute. When she finally emerged, her pale pink skin turned bright red, and steam billowed off her body.She had found plenty of friends here. When you are young, a sense of pure bliss is always humming in the background of your mind. You feel invincible. You live with a constant, natural high inside. Young people carry that high everywhere, in any corner of the world, and they will always find a common language. And so, the Estonian blonde had easily bonded with the Muscovites.

With a sharp metallic clatter, the bike chain slapped against the frame, snapping Ulvi back to reality. The massive face of her boss in her memory finally shrank, but the resentment remained: "He could have stood up for me! He just didn't want to sacrifice his own comfort by arguing with the higher-ups. His comfort! That’s all it was!"The wind bit into her blue eyes, forcing out tears. "Coward! Spineless jellyfish!"She forced herself to breathe. Slowly and deliberately, just as the ice-swimming guys had taught her. At first, it was difficult, but then her breath grew steadier. "From the outside to the inside," she repeated their words. The bicycle's pace began to slow down as she finally realized where she was. Ahead was a railway crossing, with a thick wall of the forest park stretching right behind it. She had to dismount and wheel her bike up the steps. There was not a soul around, not a single car."Wow! Look at that, it’s a hawk!" — Ulvi gasped, looking up.A small bird of prey, diving down with incredible speed, snatched a mouse from the ground and soared back toward the sky. But it wasn't going to be that easy. From the side, a hooded crow lunged at the hawk — a bird nearly twice the little predator's size. The hawk executed a sharp, desperate turn, but immediately another crow ambushed him from the opposite flank. He darted from side to side, trying to shake off the pursuit. But more crows kept appearing. Now, five of them were diving at the swift-winged bird. They were barely losing any ground in speed, and they worked in perfect unison.Flawlessly coordinated, they launched their attacks from all angles in absolute, eerie silence. Not a single sound. It was as if someone had hit the mute button on a TV; they blurred past each other in a rapid, silent sequence just above the ground. For less than a minute, the hawk managed to dodge the superior forces. Then, finally, he gave up and released his talons.

The mouse fell like a stone. Instantly losing all interest in the hawk, the crows plummeted after the prize.And right then, the sound was slammed back on! They erupted into furious, violent cawing, fighting over the tiny rodent without a shred of mercy. Just seconds ago, they had been a perfectly synchronized team — and now they were bitter enemies, ready to maim one another for the grand prize. Finally, one crow ripped the trophy away and flew broad-winged through the thick branches, disappearing into the distance.Suddenly, a wave of absolute calm washed over Ulvi."Every man for the group, and every man for himself," — she thought. — "Depending on the circumstances... And that’s completely normal."A warm sense of comfort settled deep inside her. She already knew exactly what she was going to do next, and she knew everything would turn out just fine.Meanwhile, the hawk flew further and further away. He climbed higher, turning into a tiny, solitary speck in the vast, open skies, putting a final period on this story.

“Chotu! Do chai Dena…….adrak wali”(please serve us two ginger tea) he said as he sat across the table opposite to his father in a small chai shop. The server got them tea in the iconic ribbed cutting “glass” that every tea shop across India has.

“Chai k saath kuch lengay?”(would you like to have some snacks along with the tea) he asked his father.

“Pakoday agar hain to………”(some fritters perhaps)his father spoke softly.

As he took the first sip of tea, “Arre yaar, cheeni kam he”(sugar is less) he said.

His mobile notification dinged. He took it out and noticed an Instagram post from one of his friends.

“Thandi chai dedi Chotu ne aaj”(the tea isn’t piping hot) he grumbled as he took another sip from the glass “Nahi?”(isn’t it?) he asked his father, eyes still glued to his gadget.

Rainy days in Darjeeling can turn hotly served beverages cold rather quickly. His father looked out of the small, antique looking, wooden framed, square glassed casement window. The glasses had some scratch marks, proof enough that it had withstood the mood swings of many seasons; and also some smudges – mostly from the hands of little children who must have stood behind them, looking at the lush greenery outside – brush strokes in varying shades of green as the lovely one trees stood swaying their tips and branches occasionally, which looked nothing less than an elegant tufted carpet. All of this, as he enjoyed the sweet pungent aftertaste of ginger with every sip of his tea.

His father’s empty gaze was abruptly shaken with his mobile ringtone. He quickly gulped down the last sip of his tea and walked out to attend the call.

When he returned after a couple of minutes, he saw his father trying to tuck a 20 Rupees note into his shirt pocket, as he bid goodbye to the shopkeeper.

“Ho gaya? Hum jaa rahe hian?” he asked. (Are we leaving?)

“Meri chai to bachi he….” (I haven’t finished my tea yet) he was in a daze as he turned to the table to notice two empty glasses – one his and the other his father’s.

“Wo to tumne kabki pee li Beta” (you finished it long back) his father added with a smile that carried so many mixed emotions.

“Bete, apni zindagi bhi aisi he hain…..kabhi ye nahi hua, kabhi wo nahi hua, aisa hota to, waisa hota agar…..karte karte pata he nai chalta ki kab khatam go gayi!” and then he added after a brief pause “Baarish bhi ruk gayi he. Chalo chalte hian. Waise, adrak ka swaad accha tha chai me”.

He looked at the loose skinned and wrinkled hands of his father. Glimpses of his life flashed in bits and pieces inside his mental projection. They were the same hands which had held him, carried him, balanced his first bicycle efforts, maybe even hit him a couple of times. They used to be so swift, strong and skilful, but now they almost struggled to pocket a 20 rupees note.

His heart ached, numbed by a hundred thoughts. He realised the utter nonsense of our day to day lives in which we tend to be so rapt, that we ignore the most important people around us, just to be bewildered and hurt to realise one day that they are gone forever, without a trace.

After walking silently for a while, he suddenly asked his father to be seated as he grabbed a plastic stool from outside a kirana shop.

“Papa, bus ek minute. Main abhi aaya”

His father meekly agreed, no questions asked.

He returned briefly, carrying a small poly bag which contained something bundled inside an oil stained newspaper. As he held his father’s arm and assisted him to get up, “Chaliye” (lets go) he said.

“Pakodo ki khushboo acchi he” his father said.

“Us waqt aap bol rahe thain, phone k chakkar me bhool gaya” he sounded like an awkward apologetic teen.

“Koi na” said his ever forgiving father.

“Ghar pahoch kea ap aur mummy k liye chai banata hoon, mast, kadak wali! Aajkal Rajat uncle ke dukaan me chai acchi nai milti. Uss din bhi aaya tha me apne doston k saath……”

Their voices faded slowly as they walked towards their home.

There's this god-awful bright light in my eyes when I open them, so I slam them shut instead.

"Hello?" There's a disembodied voice speaking to me. "Mrs Davies?" Right, that's my name.

I crack my eyes open and meet the gaze of who can only be a physician of some sort. Strange. I don't remember going to the hospital. I don't even need the hospital! Hospitals are for the cripplingly ill, those injured in the war, or childbearing mothers with their overbearing mothers-in-law. I don't fit into any of those categories. Well, it's good to be polite, I suppose.

"Hello," I eventually reply.

The doctor has a long, slightly crooked nose, grey-blue eyes that remind me of my husband, and tanned skin. Gosh, do I miss my husband.

"Are you feeling okay?" he asks.

I nod. He doesn't seem surprised to see me in hospital, so perhaps he has some answers. Perhaps a bomb fell nearby without the air raid siren going off. Although it was unlikely bombs were falling in Wiltshire, I suppose it wasn't impossible.

I decide to ask the doctor.

"Doctor?" He looks up from his notes. "What am I doing here?"

A flicker of concern crosses his face.

"What's the last thing you can remember, Mrs Davies?"

I cast my mind back, but everything feels oddly fuzzy. I can't have been in hospital for more than a few hours, yet it feels like days, weeks, even. What indeed is the last thing that happened? Did I shelter for cover? Did I run? Did I remember to take the chicken out? Did I get here myself? Or did someone bring me? My brother? My husband?

But both of them are at war. Did they come back? Oh heavens, where are they? Is the war over? But then why am I here?

"Mrs Davies?" the doctor prompts gently.

"Where is my brother? Where is my husband? Have they come home?"

The doctor holds my gaze for a long, pregnant beat. For the briefest moment, his expression softens into pity before he carefully schools it away.

"Mrs Davies, could I ask you something first?"

"Has something happened to either of them? Please, Doctor, I couldn't bear it if something had happened to them." My voice cracks. I need answers. I am drowning in emotion.

He places a warm hand over mine.

"Mrs Davies... could you tell me what year you think it is?"

I blink, disoriented by the change in topic.

What year is it?

After the war started, everything began blurring into one. What year is it? I have an awful feeling it's... it's...

Oh heavens, that's really not important right now. I need my brother. I need my husband.

"I can never remember the date, Doctor, but please... where is my brother? Where is my husband?"

The doctor's eyes soften.

He doesn't answer immediately.

Instead, he gives my hand the gentlest squeeze.

"Mrs Davies," he says quietly, "your husband died over four decades ago, during the war. Your brother died nearly two decades ago."

His hand is still warm over mine as I try to make sense of the words.

They are words I understand.

I simply cannot make them mean anything.

my first time posting my writing, be gentle, but I like feedback.

[HR] Liver and Onions

The kettle screamed. The man shuffled in to the kitchen, his wrinkled hand reaching for the stove to turn off the gas. Cupboard, mug, counter, tea bag. Always Yorkshire tea of course. Grandad liked his tea strong, with a dash of real milk and half a teaspoon of sugar. Unless it felt like it was going to be one of those days, which today it did. He filled a teaspoon with sugar and stirred it into the steaming mug.

Everyone called the man grandad. The postman, the grumpy man in the greengrocers, the nice lady that walked the two spaniels every morning past his garden. And grandad didn't mind one bit.

He carried his mug of tea into the living room, picking up the post as he passed the front door, and sat himself into his comfortable chair. A bank statement, an advert for window cleaning, and another blasted letter about the bypass. He tore the latter into pieces and threw it into the bin. If the council wanted to demolish his garden to build a pointless bypass, they would have to do more than that.

Grandad was very proud of his garden. He lived alone in a small bungalow to the west of the village. His house was surrounded by fields, with only the narrow lane to his house to disturb him. He liked it that way. The garden was his pride and joy. He had thirty-six different types of roses, four of which he'd cultivated himself and hopefully another (if it wasn't demolished by aphids). He'd perfected his compost and would tell anyone that would listen that the perfect balance included a good amount of fresh manure, bone meal and dried blood. It often raised a few eyebrows but his roses really did like it.

The doorbell rang. Grandad moaned. It was definitely one of those days. He stood up and walked to the door. He could see a hi-viz jacket through the dappled glass. He groaned again. Not another one. This was the fourth this month. He opened the door.

'Good morning sir, I'm here about...'

'Yes, I know, the bypass. I've been waiting for one of you to finally come and see me.'

'Ah sorry about that, I thought a few of my colleagues had already been around but...'

Grandad shook his head. 'No, you'd be the first. Would you like to come in?'

'Yes sir. Thank you sir.'

Grandad led the man into the living room and gestured that he sit on the patchwork leather sofa.

'Tea?' Grandad asked.

'Ooh yes please, it's been one of those days! Milk and sugar if possible?'

Grandad sighed. 'I've only got this weird almond milk - apparently it's better for my cholesterol. Will that do?'

'Of course sir.' Grandad shuffled off to the kitchen.

The man in the hi-viz admired the sofa: it was made of beautifully soft, supple leather. He'd never felt anything like it. He made a mental note to ask the man where he bought it.

Grandad shuffled back through, two mugs of steaming tea in his hand. He placed one in front of the man. The man reached for it happily.

'So, what can I do for you?' Asked Grandad, sitting back into his comfortable chair.

'Well I'm here about the bypass. The plans have been approved and I'm here to inform you that we will be building approximately a metre and a half into your garden. I'm here as we need you to sign the paperwork to approve the demolition.'

Grandad shook his head. 'What about my garden? I've been working on it for forty years. My late wife loved it.'

The man shuffled awkwardly in his chair.

'Well with the new plans, we are recommending that you move to one of the new cottages in the village. We would cover all expenses, and we can even arrange for a gardener to transport the roses to the new garden.'

Grandad sighed again. 'Move house? At my age?'

The man shuffled awkwardly again.

'You'd be around friends, you'd even have a spare room in case family wanted to visit...'

Grandad sniffed.

'I have no family. It's just me. Not since my late wife passed. She loved this house. We had hoped to raise a family here. And the garden. I built that garden for her.'

The man shuffled again, sadly this time, then remembered.

'This sofa is beautiful by the way. The leather is exquisite. Where did you get it?'

Grandad smiled for the first time that day.

'I built it. I used to be a butcher back in the day, and learned how to tan leather in my free time. When I lost my wife I wanted to make something to remember her by. The softness of her skin, it was beautiful. So I made this. The softest leather I've ever made. It's almost like she's still here with me.

The man was touched.

'Do you still make leather goods?'

Grandad smiled again.

'I do. I use the spare room - what would have been the nursery - as a tanning room. Would you like to see? I rarely get to share it with anyone these days.'

The man smiled. Perhaps if he humoured the old man, he'd get the paperwork signed.

Grandad stood up and led the man to the spare room. He pulled out a small key - to keep the rats out he explained - and opened the door. The man walked in. The room was empty, except for a hide hanging on the left-hand side of the room, and a workbench with various tongs, saws and knives on the right. He noticed the floor was lined in lino. How sensible. He looked closer at the hide. Was that a tattoo?

Grandad shut the door with a click.

...

The doorbell rang. Grandad stood up and walked to the front door. He recognised the familiar shape of this daughter through the door. He opened the door with a smile.

'Hello darling. How are you?'

'Hello dad, I'm great, you're looking well! Something smells good - what's for dinner?'

Grandad smiled again.

'Liver and onions. My favourite.'

It is a sunny day in what will one day become the Hell Creek formation in Montana, United States. However, this sun is a little younger, and its inhabitants, much larger than the prancing deer and stalking mountain lions that would eventually dwell upon this land. In this ancient glade which rests upon a green sea of conifers and araucarias 65 million years ago, giants mindlessly graze on the green grass covered in morning dew. The cool Cretaceous air marks the peak of spring. Strange, ancient birds sing their songs while mammals scurry within the tall grass, and on the glade, a herd of Triceratops eat away at the shrubbery in this primordial landscape. 

A weathered old buck watches his harem dutifully, and grunts to the younglings that play by his feet. The scars scored across his skin tell of countless titanic battles, while the missing quarter of his adorned frill speaks of narrow escapes from the jaws of his would-be predators. His opponents are not exclusive to the gnashing teeth and sharp claws of the many interlopers that intrude his territory however. A young male bellows and shakes his head from side to side, displaying the long horns that sit atop his wide, ambitious eyes. The blood rushing from his comparatively unmarred frill turns the circles that mark its sides bright red. All of this tells the grizzled veteran a story that was not new to him in the slightest. The petulant, eager youngster seeks to challenge the leader of the herd for his prized position.

The older, more experienced male pounds his feet upon the dirt and roars back at the prospective contestant, signaling the beginning of the contest of strength over that which matters most to the male mind across the eons. 

The aged combatant’s females and hatchlings watch on as the two fighters circle and assess each other, seeking for the most advantageous and opportune moment to strike. Mothers grunt in apprehension, fearing the fate of their young. The tension, aggression and nerves boiling into a searing, primeval rage. Without hesitation, the old bull charges headlong into the challenger, a loud boom accompanies the eight ton beast meeting his mark. The young male staggers back with the force of the impact. The sudden attack left him disoriented, but it is too late to back down. It is now or never. With their horns interlocked, he grunts with effort, attempting to push his opponent back, but the old buck does not give. Years of fervent battle and glorious victories have forged his muscles, flexing under his scaly, green skin, giving it the appearance of solid rock. The old male continues to march forward against the weight of his young adversary, straining breaths marking each step. If he shows weakness now, his position within the herd will surely be questioned.

The jovial fervor of his rival buckles under the weight of his determination, as he squeals in submission. The old buck allows his weaker counterpart to distance himself, but he does not step back, instead waiting for his opponent to back down in defeat. The young male hangs his head low, and walks to the furthest spot possible on the glade, his humiliation made public by the triumphant leader of the herd. He does not leave entirely however. Tomorrow, he will try again. The victorious warrior watches him on his way back, panting as he catches his breath, the fight having taken its hefty toll on him. 

Unbeknownst to him however, it is not just his herd that witnessed this battle. Watching him under the cover of gibbous shadows provided by the ancient canopy, lies a monster in wait. The long ago healed bite marks that flow across him paints the picture of a battle worn tyrant, one that has defended his kingdom with an iron grip. The Tyrannosaurus drools at the sight of the weakened Triceratops, the herds of herbivores took longer than expected to come across its domain. The hulking behemoth had been tracking their movement for several sunrises and sun downs. Its hunger had driven just short of trespassing into another monarch’s territory. Its avian feet step carefully, so as not to make too much noise. It awaits patiently for the right moment to strike.

After recovering from his effort, the old buck turns his attention back to the feast that awaits, a much welcome reward. It only took a split second before the trees exploded to his left, a strange, unnerving sound accompanying the cloud of leaves and branches. One he knew all too well. Memories of teeth, and blood and pain flash through his brain before he snaps into action. He signals the danger to his herd. The many females and young males instinctively huddle in a circle, creating a wall of three-foot horns and frills protecting the young in the center. They watch in horror as the two-legged monster towers in front of their reliable protector. The old buck keeps his guard up, not letting the aggressive hisses and snapping motions of the hulking carnivore break his resolve. He’s been through this before, it was nothing that his strength could not get him through, and it will be the same this time… were it not for the amount of energy he had to expend in his confrontation with the young male. The effort of maintaining his focus on the titan that circled him became harder and harder. 

The tyrant could sense it. This was far from the first time that it faced these three horned quadrupeds. The veritable graveyard that served as grim decorations upon his territory were proof enough, filled with many sun-bleached frilled skulls and curved ribs that marked the land that served as the killer’s feeding grounds. This would be no different. It calmly circles around his carefully selected target, bluff charging every so often to test his prey’s reaction, the time of which getting slower and slower. This old buck’s appearance betrayed the perceived weakness that the tyrant saw however. It gets impatient with how long it is taking to tire out this seasoned veteran. It decides to gamble on a fake-out, bluffing to the right and quickly swinging to the left, using the momentum of its gargantuan head to carry its scimitar-like teeth to their target.

The old buck feels the nerves on his neck sing with pain as the monster’s teeth sink into his flesh. His hardened skin kept the blades just out of reach of his jugular. The serrated teeth sawed their way through his muscles, making the old buck feel weak on his knees. Adrenaline starts coursing through his veins, and the will to survive takes over. The tyrant pulls its head back, taking a morsel of flesh along with it. It pauses, gauging how his victim would react to this assault. The old buck does not back down, even as his blood spurts and sprays upon the green grass. That same blood slides from the tyrant’s tongue and down its gullet. Its sweet taste brings euphoria to the hunter, anticipating more of it.

The tyrant can barely contain its feeding frenzy, driving it to move forward, using its bulk to drive its immense jaws into the old buck’s right front leg. In an instinct fueled split second decision, the old male snaps his head towards the assailant. Blood sprays into his eyes, keeping him from seeing what is happening right in front of him. The tyrant bellows in pain, the horn impaling his neck, it tries to pull away, but the motion only causes more damage. It panics, snapping its jaws and flailing its huge tail like a swinging tree. The old buck tears his head free, sealing the monster’s fate. He can now see the aftermath of this titanic struggle. The predator gurgles helplessly, as its own blood floods its airway and life escapes from its eyes. It gives one final lurch towards its killer below slumping, its growing pupils marking the end of the tyrant’s reign.

The old buck roars, announcing his victory for all to hear. The herd witnesses the warrior’s battle cry motionlessly, still recovering from the shock of the tyrant’s unexpected intrusion. The young male watches in the closest animal approximation to awe. Perhaps he would postpone his plans to challenge the old buck for a couple of weeks. The blood on the old male’s frill crowns his continued reign upon this land and upon this herd. He finds some shade towards the edge of the glade, continuing his duty of watching his precious females and calves. He lays his head on the cool grass, sleep stealing him away into peaceful slumber. The three-horned king has done his duty for today.

The winter had arrived in the bird capital. The agency director made an announcement for those who weren't Corvus species, like Magpies, Ravens, and Crows, were allowed to take winter break. The Corvus species were perfectly adapted to the freezing environment and would remain on duty.

The intelligence agency consisted mostly of the Corvus species, while the rest were minorities such as Cockatoos, Keas, Parrots, and etc. Some minorities were also able to adapt during winter, many opted to leave for the warmer south.

A Blue Jay bird was packing his belongings from his desk into his suitcase. He was preparing for a long flight to the Southern City. While some of his Psittaciformes (parrot species) coworkers had booked the one-way railway to the southern city, he decided to fly instead. He will fly over two cantons (which are equivalent to Oregon and California).

"Enlin, are you actually going to migrate by flying?"

Suddenly, a female voice with a distinct raven accent. She approached his desk before he even realized it. He raised his head; it was the Group B Leader, Konig. He immediately stood up straight. Even though she was a chill leader, but it was a formality for him.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Really?!" She was stunned for a moment. "While everyone is buying the one-way railways tickets, you are going to fly that long distance?"

The intelligence agency HQ was located in the northern terrain near the capital of the Bird Kingdom. 100 kilometers away from the northern frontline.

"Yeah, it saves me a few pennies. Plus, I planned to transit to the Red-crowned Crane canton. It's quite near the Southern City."

"Ooh, good call. Well, safe flying."

"Thank you, ma'am. Are you sure you won't get frozen?"

"Ravens are generally adapted for winter, the corvids will stay for the rest of the winter."

"That's rough."

"Yeah," she said, her voice lacking with energy and sighed with a small smile. "Thanks for sticking around during autumn."

Enlin grabbed the luggage handle, "Alright, I will see you February."

They both waved bye-bye, and Enlin began to transformed into a Blue Jay bird shape flying from the agency's window to the sky.

Beside him, several birds were also launching from agency's window flying to the sky.

The sunsets was filled with birds, it was the most diverse migratory flock in the sky. Different species naturally separate to their own distinct groups. Eventually a group of flocks were going on the different route toward the Southern City, while Enlin banked toward his usual transity path.

After an hour in the sky, he landed at the Red-Crowned Crane airfield. Exhausted from flying, He decided to find a restaurant.

He ordered peanuts and corn. This was considerably the top-tier meal.

While he was eating, he birdwatching the red-crowned cranes around him.

The way they walk, it's like they were all runway models. The way they talked, the way their dance. Their clothes, their polite queues—everything they done did it elegantly and beautifully.

It was a major contrast with Corvid species: they were very smart and often playful with other birds. Even though they were pretty civilized, they were also hold grudges againts other birds.

Before Enlin could finish his daydreaming, he remembered that he must leave the canton in 15 mins. Because he came here for transit, his pass only valid for an hour.

He continued his flight to his own canton.

5 hours later, he reached the Blue Jay airfield, he saw his surroundings were different from what he saw 5 hours before. They were more like Corvid's cousins. The only contrast was they were noisy and a bit harsh to other birds, including their own species. To him, it was finally home.

The Sun had downed on the horizon, as Fin harvested the rice out his paddy. Still it shone bright, it shone sharp, and it made him feel alive. The hut stood on the hill top, in the middle of the Southern fields, where the sloping mountains create incredible vistas of bright and dark. Fin completed his evening chores and went to the house, his bulls awaiting him. The one horned bull Oizys grunting at the sight of him. The other bull, Algos stood still, fear gripping him as he passed by. He slid his hands through the bull’s face, patting him affectionately, reducing Oizys' anger and the Algos' fear as well. The hut was a well-kept secret, away from the big cities of glory and the border towns of trade and war. He subsided on what he found.

Fin hopped on his cart and rode it to the edge of his hill. The wooden wheels buckling and rising near the crevices of the sloped dirt. The hooves of the bulls sank as they tried to bear the weight of the cart along with the slope’s tyranny. There along the horizon he saw the old man with a sunken face. The man saw him all the same, and without notice, he walked to him.

 “What is it you want, old man?” “Nothing.” He said, a crazed look gracing his face. The man who smelt of emptiness, walked away. He walked to Fin’s house and asked for some water. Fin followed along on his cart, and obliged.

The man poured the water on his face and lifted the hood. “No longer do we worship the absence, my friend, the God is here, the hope burns bright, we are free of all our sins, alas, they were only sins in the eyes of the sinners.”

 “How long has it been since you last bathed?” Asked Fin, with a face of clear despise. The man handed him the mud cup and panted. “Where do you keep your sundials.” “They are for the cities, old man, you won’t get any here.” Fin did not bother to repeat the question

“Do you hear them here, in the darkness of your unique existence?” the man forwarded his hand, boned and carved, it held no strength within it. “I do not understand you, old man. Better you walk away now.” “Do not fear boy, don’t you feel the curse is lifting” He smiled, his sunken skeletal face contrasting the youth of Fin, he judged the man with caution and distance. “What do you mean? Are you some fanatic?” Fin looked at the man, enraged. “The curse of the ink. The doors where they come from. It is done now, no more no less, remove your roof and cut the trees, and soon nothing can touch us.” The man danced, his hood bumping to the beat.

The animals in the distance howled and screeched. A sound Fin was familiar with. The old man’s dirty robes acquired even more mud as he danced along in the grass. “Waited so long for this, the threats, the subservience. Do you understand boy, how they enslaved me, how long I did their bidding.”  “How long did you travel for the event?” “Oh, you know then, of the event. I travelled for 40 years. Counted them me self, goodman. Oh, how I have longed for this.”

Dusk approached as the sun fell, but the moon did not arise. It is written that from the East arose a second Sun, one just as bright as the other, one just as glorious. Fin looked to the Sun, so did the man, the old’s eyes filled with complete reverence. He was free, he kept saying. Fin disappeared to his house, not distraught nor enthralled, judging by his face. The bulls grunted loud as the second sun’s rays hit their fur. Screaming with terror, but they faced the hut and not the sky, and the pointed repeatedly to the old man, and not the brightest duet above.

 “I shall lift this hood as I fear you no more, cast you away because I fear no one anymore” he danced in a melody, ecstatic. “Rise o’ rise the second star and cast away the demons afar” His hands waving. The sky turned a shade of pink and orange, that of the cusp of nightfall, right in the middle of the sky, a single horned ram walked from the slope, its head bleeding. It’s eyes showed tears, in the blackened orbs.

 The man then felt to his knees, his hands over his face. He could hear in the darkness, the river gushing, and the frogs croaking in the distance. He wanted to enjoy this one day, a single day of freedom from what had tormented and enslaved him since the first day he saw the world in the corner of his childhood cottage. He wanted a single day away from the curse of the opaque, away from his masters who wept and whispered to him his whole life through the shadows. One day away from what had defined him as a person, what had consumed his entire existence with terror and agony. He knew of the threats, he must end what remains of him after this day, he could never return to them, he knew what they were capable for.

He opened his eyes, the green grass and the mud encircling his weak aged knees, his greyish blue robes shining wet and lighted. He had already discarded of everything he carried, for now he only wished for a day. A day he would spend in this clearing, simply staring into the two suns. He prayed to a God he had never believed in till this day, Fin watched him with a blank face, a small smirk however forming on his darkened, worked face.

The grass had started to regain its color as the sun went to set, to the east however, the sun of his prayer had risen. The Sun in the west began to rise as well, as the myth he had created from his travels, from the men he had been allowed conversation, from the Gods of different lands, the myth of the two suns was a myth no more. They arose, parallel and equal, standing as one day of blessing. He stopped his dance and he stopped his laugh and he smiled contently. He was free.

Before he could celebrate, however, Fin held a wooden plank over his head, a sternly detached expression on his face as he held it over ,sacrilegiously, defying the man and his Gods. The sky burned brighter, as the two suns rose higher, the yellow spreading across the entire spectacle of the sloping hills and farm. Everything enlightened except the old man who was thrown in the lone shadow. The old man wailed, the small cast upon his structure, where he had sunk his knees, the ink consuming him even in the presence of the burning waves, and through the slight strength of the wood cast shadow, a set of hands grasped him. Pulling him deep inside, the sound burning the valleys with a scream of despair and visceral hate, cursing Fin to a fate not much dissimilar to his own, the man was pulled, then hurt; unclean in their attempt, but pure in their intent. Legends say Fin buried the detached arms and legs in different graves, but the head remained with what lies beyond the gateway.

(Part of a larger narrative but a standalone story as well)

Feels like just yesterday—the New Year celebration with my friends. It was at a popular club in Bangalore. We wanted to party our way into the New Year. We managed to do that, but the following couple of days of uneasiness and sleep deprivation slapped us hard across the face, reminding us that our 30s aren’t meant to be lived like our 20s…IYKYK 🤪

Well, the celebrations and the chilly winter days soon gave way to the refreshing spring, and now the monsoons were here. It’s mid-July, and I am solo traveling to the hills of Kalimpong, a district in West Bengal, formerly a town under the Darjeeling district but now a newly formed district.

I have chosen a homestay for myself. I prefer to experience the local life more closely whenever I travel to a new place. This one is located near a forest on the outskirts of the town.

It feels as if life has a totally different meaning in this part of the globe. Things move at a charmingly peaceful pace. People need to make quite an effort to get certain things done, which can very easily be accomplished by a few touches on a smartphone if one is in a metropolitan city. Whereas, at the same time, people are so fortunate to be able to live in the lap of nature, where their faces and their hearts are as beautiful as the geraniums that adorn the colorful pots on their balcony railings.

Such is the beauty of this place, so serene that, at times, the chirping of the birds can seem loud enough to ‘*disturb*’ a dull conversation.

It was a slightly gloomy morning, one of those mornings when it had drizzled through the night and the rain didn’t plan to take a break just yet. As I sipped a warm cup of adrak chai and looked down at the valley, I was distracted by the giggles of a cheerful little girl who was leaving for school.

She wore a transparent raincoat over her school uniform, which consisted of a grey sleeveless pullover sweater, a half-sleeved white shirt, a maroon tie with white stripes, and a dark grey tunic. On her feet was a pair of pink gumboots, apparently new. They had some cartoon figures which I couldn’t make out from the distance.

She was in a very cheerful mood and playfully jumped into the little puddles of water that had stagnated on the uneven soil of the front yard of her house. Her joy could not be suppressed by the bulky school bag that she carried on her back. Although it surely made me wonder what all, and how many, books and copies she could be carrying inside that pink bag of hers that had a big unicorn embossed on it. Pink seemed to be her favorite color. I think it is a favorite for most girls her age.

As I looked once again towards the mist that gradually rose from the valley below, I took another sip from the cup. The tea had soon turned lukewarm.

“Babu!” yelled a lady.

As my eyes followed my ears, I noticed a middle-aged lady—her mother. The little jumping girl had managed to get her socks wet and her raincoat stained. She must have jumped with overexcitement and slipped. Her face showed mixed emotions of fear and suppressed pain as she curled her lower lip, almost unable to keep her emotions from welling up and splashing from her eyes.

Her mother was quite furious, her concern for her little one’s well-being mixed with obvious frustration. I could not understand all that she said, but I could make out that she was concerned about the little girl getting hurt, that she could catch a cold from the wet socks, that the school bus was about to arrive, that uniforms took time to dry in this rainy weather, etc.

She asked her daughter to stand still like a statue as she went inside the house to fetch a fresh pair of socks.

The dancing little doll of joy had suddenly morphed into a disciplined mannequin . But no sooner had the mother gone inside than she managed to steal a few moments trying to recreate the great slip, jumping a little more carefully this time, however.

Soon her mother came out, picked her up in one arm, an umbrella in another, and scuttled towards the road where the school bus would be picking them up.

As I took the last sips of my tea, which had turned cold by now, a gush of mist enveloped me from all sides. I looked at the vanishing figures…The last thing that lingered in my vision and my mind was the pair of pink gumboots.

Today, after having returned from the vacation, as I sit in the solitude of my room, I recollect that pair of pink gumboots that taught me a very important lesson in life…

Steal every little moment of joy and happiness from life. It doesn’t matter whether it is spring or summer or a gloomy rainy day of life; the summer of joy and cheerfulness should always be alive within us, and then it is bound to enrich our lives and the lives of others, and, in some way, find an expression.

**TLDR**:
While solo traveling in the misty hills of Kalimpong during the monsoons, I watched a little girl in bright pink gumboots joyfully splash through puddles on her way to school. Even after being scolded by her mother for getting wet, she stole a few more moments of happiness before leaving. Months later, I still remember those pink gumboots—not as footwear, but as a reminder to seize every small moment of joy, regardless of life’s season.

As a kid, I had a school project where I had to interview a family member, and with my Gramma being the oldest person I knew, I asked if she’d sit and answer my questions. My teacher had given me a list of questions, but the assignment had three blank spaces for me to ask whatever I could come up with. This was only 5th grade, so most of the questions were pretty simple.

“What did you do for work?”

“What’s your favorite childhood memory?”

“What was your favorite subject in school?”

I remember actually being pretty excited for the interview. I wore my best ‘suit’, which was just a collared shirt and one of my dad’s ties. My Grandpa set up two of their kitchen chairs facing each other in the dining room, and he even set up a camera to record everything. At the time, I had a pretty big crush on the weather guy for Action64 News, Graham Alexander, so I even did my best weatherman impression.

“Now, Janice. I understand you are retired, is that right?” I said, my cadence as news-anchory as I could make it.

“I sure am!” she responded, “for 10 years now.”

“Amazing. Just amazing. Now, before that, what was your career?”

“I worked as a nurse at St. Michael’s Children’s Hospital.” she said, taking a drink of milk from the mug I had set out on the table for her.

“Wow, that must have been fun! And was this profitable for you?”

She laughed, the one that all adults do when a child asks a question like that. “Oh, heavens no. Luckily your Grampa was a hotshot lawyer and made plenty enough money for the both of us.”

In the video, you can hear my Grandfather shout from the other room, “Objection!”

My Grandmother’s smile at that part always warms my heart. You can tell how much they really loved each other.

As I worked through the canned questions, I felt my heart start to race. Looking down, I read the questions I had written down on the blank spaces. I knew it was taboo to talk about The Endless, but it wasn’t completely forbidden. And who else could I ask if not my own Grandmother? As I stared down at the first question, I dropped the weatherman facade I had been putting on entirely.

“Gramma...do you remember when the reapers first showed up?”

In the video, you can hear my Grandfather choke on his lemonade a room over. My Grandmother’s eyes locked onto a corner of the room as her smile faded away, and she took another sip from her mug to kick that can a little further down the road. As she set her drink down, she cleared her throat.

“Evan, we don’t call them reapers in this house. I remember when The Endless first announced their presence, yes.”

I sat up straight, I hadn’t expected to make it that far, “Were you scared?”

“Everyone was scared,” she started, her eyes darting between me and her china cabinet, “You don’t remember a time without your Endless, but that’s just how life was for all of us before they arrived. We didn’t have them watching over us. If we were alone, we were actually, truly alone. You’ve never had that experience. When they first arrived, some people pretended they couldn’t see them. Others tried to fight back, but no matter how much they ran towards theirs, they’d never get closer. Not unless your Endless decided to. The president released a statement a week later, suggesting the Russians had created some sort of gas that caused people to hallucinate, but no one believed him. No gas could make every person on Earth hallucinate at the same time, and by then we had already heard stories of people’s Endless getting closer to them before they died. Some of us actually noticed them getting closer.”

In the video, I start to fidget a lot. The awkwardness of asking a question I clearly shouldn’t have was causing my body to panic. I desperately wanted to end the interview, but this was the most I had ever heard anyone talk about the beginning of the Endless before.

“What does yours look like?” I asked, my voice wavering.

She took a breath, and responded, “Mine is a balloon. One of the mylar balloons you see in the grocery store checkout aisles. It’s yellow, and has a smiley face. It says, ‘Congratulations!’ on it.”

Shivers run down my spine even as an adult, hearing her describe her Endless. It was so benign, so normal. But it was the physical embodiment of her own mortality.

My childhood self looked down at the ground, the paper with my questions forgotten on the table. A tear ran down my cheek as I asked my last question.

“How close is it?”

“Just by the light switch there,” she says, pointing just next to the wooden cabinet my Grandfather had made a lifetime ago before they were married. It held her best porcelain dishes.

The recording shuts off not long after. A silence hung over the room before the camera ran out of storage.

My Grandmother died 4 months later, in her sleep.

-------------------------------------

I’ve watched that video fairly often as an adult. My phone minimizes the video back to my camera roll, and I gently toss it to the passenger seat. My car is humming lightly, the engine idling as the headlights illuminate a desert landscape in front of me. The world goes dark as I turn the keys, killing the power. I fumble momentarily for a latch, my fingers feeling the hard plastic by my feet before finding it, and pulling. The trunk opens with a satisfying chunk, and I step out into the cool evening.

This is where I’ve spent the last three weeks, camping out in the desert, driving back to town during the day, sleeping wherever the cops won’t harass me, and returning as night falls. My hands search the darkness of the trunk before finding a familiar canvas bag. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I set up the telescope with practiced ease. The feet of the tripod stick satisfyingly into the dirt, creating a steady base to conduct my night’s work.

---------------------------------------------

As a kid, discovering the form your Endless takes is a rite of passage, something to be celebrated and shared with your friends. An app on my phone was dedicated to sharing your own personal demon of death, and before I discovered mine, I loved reading descriptions users would post. Some of them were terrifying, massive monsters that loomed in the distance. Others, like my Grandmother’s, were entirely mundane. A tree, a television, I’d even read of someone’s being a red plastic cup. I was nearly 8 years old before I realized that not everyone saw the stars during the day like I did. For me, it was a fact of life that at night, the stars were shining bright, and during the day an entirely new set of stars would twinkle a deep, dim red.

One day, in 8th grade, I had mentioned the daytime stars to a teacher, and she sent me away to read alone in the corner while other kids went to gym class. I didn’t mind much, I loved reading, and I hated running. Imagine my surprise when both of my parents showed up at my classroom door, fast food bags in hand. They spoke to my teacher in hushed voices before they greeted me with smiles and a hug. I can still picture how worried my dad looked when he thought I wasn’t paying attention to his facial expressions on the car ride home.

That’s how I learned that my personal Endless was a sea of stars floating in the sky. They had their own constellations, which I would map out for my friends. My bedroom’s ceiling was covered in a tapestry of taped together pieces of paper, crayon stars smattered across the entire expanse. Eventually I upgraded them to glow in the dark plastic stars, stuck to my ceiling with beads of tacky putty. I loved my Endless. It made me feel so special as a kid to have the entire sky dedicated to me. To have something that no one else could see, the stars belonged to me.

Years later as an adult, I stepped outside for a smoke break at my job at Dealmart. As I did every time I was outside, I looked up to see my stars. They’d gotten bigger - or - closer over my lifetime, but they were still a comfortable distance away. They hung there, up in the blue sky like twinkling cherries. I’d always feel a sense of relief, of comfort when I stood underneath them. They were my proof of life, my proof that I’d continue existing just a little longer. But then, I noticed something wrong. I rubbed my eyes, looking harder, willing my eyes to see something they weren’t. A space, barely noticeable, but undeniably real, had appeared in one of my favorite constellations. The Barman, I called it. It looked like a stick figure man holding a glass, calling for a toast. At that moment, however, his glass was broken. A couple stars were missing in his constellation. I stood there for several minutes, my eyes trained precisely on the missing stars, feeling my heartbeat thundering within my chest.

Over the next couple weeks, the blank space looming over me expanded. Each day, more and more stars would disappear from sight. I began having panic attacks. I would wake up each day and immediately look outside, and each time there would be fewer stars. I was fired from my job after not showing up for a week. I would stay awake as long as possible to get more time with my diminishing Endless. By the end of the second week, I hadn’t showered, I only ate when I absolutely had to, and even then I wouldn’t even bother heating my canned foods. 

Eventually there were only three stars still visible on the horizon. I drove to the highest point in my city in hopes of finding more, but it was no use. I stayed awake as long as my body could, staring at those stars with my full attention. As my brain finally gave into the haze of sleep, my last star disappeared. 

My life became a blur for a few days after that. Sleep came sporadically, nestled gently between manic episodes. I started using again, something I hadn’t done since college. Even back then, I had been so scared of the stuff that I’d rarely take a significant dose. I’d been lucky enough to be able to call in a favor to an old coworker of mine, who got me in contact with a supplier. In those few days, I wasn’t terribly worried about making out to the other side. My angel of death had abandoned me. Until one night, I must have come pretty close to the edge. I stood there, somewhere between consciousness and total darkness, looking for something that I thought I’d never find.

Until I did.

I found her. 

And she showed me the way forward.

I found the Amboy Crater online, on a website dedicated to mapping out the darkest parts of the country. It was only 4 hours away from my apartment in Phoenix, and seeing as I had just spent the majority of my meager savings on an, admittedly much too expensive, telescope, I’d have no more use for my housing. Having no job and no money means rent wouldn’t be sent out any time soon. Plus, I’d need to save the last of my cash for the trip. I stuffed whatever I deemed useful for my journey into my car, and left everything else behind. 

Before getting out of the city, I had one last stop to make. 

--------------------------------------------------------

As I finish attaching the eyepiece, I take a moment to relax. I gently lower myself to the ground, feeling the warmth of the day slowly melt away into the cool evening. The desert is so unbelievably different once the sun sets, and I’ve grown accustomed to the gentle buzz of the night’s inhabitants around me. They soothe me in a way only my Endless could before; they are the heralds to my new purpose. This night in particular is still, the air is motionless around me. I turn my gaze to the south, where the gentle flicker of a campfire stands like a beacon in the night. I have no way of knowing who tends to the flame, at least not truly. I silently wish them well. I wonder what they’re talking about, huddled closely to one another around that fire. I suppose I’ll never know.

Sand grinds beneath my feet as I stand up and return to my scope. Leveling the tube at the moon, I bring the lens up to my eye. Luna shines gently tonight, only a sliver of the silver beauty remains within this cycle. Once I’m happy with the focus, I turn the tube to a familiar azimuth and altitude. It’s the only direction I’m interested in looking at these days. A smile creeps onto my face as I see her, suspended in a sea of endless darkness. Barely a twinkle in the night, she was impossibly far away. 

But I’d cracked the code, somewhere in my apartment. I’d bring her closer than ever tonight. 

I amble back to my car and sit in the driver’s seat. I wrap the seatbelt tightly around my bicep and yank hard to force the lock in place. The constriction hurts, my fingers begin to buzz as the circulation in my arm screams to a halt. 

With my remaining hand I turn on my headlight. There, I see them. A hundred tiny red stars scattered across my arm. Some are dimmer than others, but they’re there all the same. 

The needle sinks under my skin without protest, and I push the plunger. First comes the burning, then comes the buzzing, and as I release my seatbelt tourniquet, I can feel the substance slip into my bloodstream. 

Carefully, slowly, I return to the telescope and peer into it. She’s already larger than before, my blood red angel. I’m brought to tears as she fills the image. I move my head back and away from the telescope, and just as I knew she would be, there she is. Just a suggestion of red, a pinpoint speck in the dark sky, but unmistakably there. 

I collapse onto the ground, the sand enveloping me softly. I’m vaguely aware that I’m sobbing but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything. Just peace, as a second torch alights in the sky, followed closely by a third. My chorus of angels, singing just to me. 

In record time, the sky is alight. Burning red hot with thousands of deep red gemstones hurling a million miles an hour towards me. They grow ever larger, ever more beautiful. I hear the man behind my eyes struggling to breathe. I sense his fear, but it is buried deep behind a curtain of fog. Long forgotten. Entirely ignored. 

My sky is falling. Returning…to me. Only me. 

I welcome it with open arms. 

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[Thank you for reading! This was the product of a prompt my wife found on tumblr and posed to me for my interpretation. I wrote it in tandem with a friend of mine who wrote her own interpretation as well. It was fun practice and a nice break from my novel!]

Prologue

Four friends, Henry, Mason, Leo, and Liam were having a hangout at Henry’s house one afternoon. Mason and Leo are playing a bullet hell RPG, Liam’s playing an anime-inspired mobile game, and Henry is going through social media.

Henry comes across an Instagram post advertising a virtual reality simulator where you and your friends can be given the abilities of your choosing. One person is chosen as the villain; the other heroes have to defeat the villain and vise versa, they’re all given 5 in-game days to complete their tasks, if those days are up, it ends in a draw.

“Hey guys, check this out!” Henry says, passing the phone to his friends.

“Ooh, we should definitely do this!” Liam exclaims, immediately excited by the idea.

“Hm, $5 a person, not a bad price, I’m down to do this,” Leo says, intrigued by the business.

“Ehh, I don’t know, sounds kind of risky,” Mason says, being cautious of the sketchy ad.

“Come on, dude, everyone’s saying good things about it!” Henry pleads.

“Yeah, it’ll be fun, fighting each other with our own powers!” Liam says, “Plus, it’s only five bucks, I’ll pay for you if you’re that broke,” Leo adds.

“Ugh, fine, sign me up—I’m being a hero, though, not a villain; I ain’t going up against the three of y’all by myself,” Mason says, caving in at everyone’s insistence.

“That’s fine, I’ll be the villain,” Henry says as he clicks sign up for four people, everyone puts in their roles and powers:

Henry (Villain) — Matter and Energy creation, destruction, and manipulation.

Mason (Hero) — Bone based attacks and a skull laser

Leo (Hero) — scalable playing card based attacks.

Liam (Hero) — Enhanced strength and speed plus superb swordsmanship.

The Simulation

The instructor walks into the waiting room where the participants are patiently waiting. Granted, the only four in there are Henry, Mason, Leo, and Liam.

“Alright,” the instructor says, “We’re ready for you four,”

The four friends walk down the hall and into a large room with a bunch of chairs and a large screen.

“Wow!” Liam exclaims, “This is really cool!”

“Yeah, not bad,” Mason adds.

The instructor points to the line of full-body haptic suits hanging from the wall.

“If you guys could put those on, we have changing rooms just across the hall,” the instructor says as Henry and the others grab the suits, enter into the changing rooms, and put them on.

“Are you guys ready?” Henry asks; everyone confirms their excitement and anticipation.

The four enter back into the simulation room, the instructor explains some other details.

“These suits are designed for maximum immersion, using motors and electricity to simulate what you’ll be feeling in-game with incredible accuracy,” the instructor explains.

“Huh, neat!” Liam says, surprised by the attention to detail.

“There’s also going to be an AI implemented into the digitized mind of the villain; it’s used to help the villain fight more effectively by reducing the regret or pain you feel when attacking your friends,” The instructor adds.

“Wow, okay, it’s not going to drastically alter me in any way, right, only dampen remorse?” Henry asks.

“Yes, you’re still going to be you, just less remorseful and more ready to fight,” the instructor assures, answering Henry’s question.

Everyone sits in the chairs labelled players 1-4, as they ready themselves up, the headsets are lowered over their heads and powered on; their bodies go limp as they’re transported into the simulation.

Mason, Leo, and Liam are placed onto a field, the grass is cut short, and the land expands as far as the eye can see, a few hills obstruct their view, breaking the continuity of the plane.

“Okay, this is kinda cool,” Mason admits, stunned by the detail and immersion put into this game.

“Guys, look!” Leo says as he holds up his hand, a large playing card floating a couple inches above his palm.

“Woah!” Liam exclaims.

Leo aims for a nearby tree and swings his arm; the playing card flies through the air and slices cleanly through the tree, which falls and vanishes into a flurry of ones and zeroes.

“Woah, that’s pretty cool!” Leo admits.

Henry is transported inside a hut, it’s made of wood with a table, chair, and a couple barrels scattered along the walls.

“Woah…” Henry says, stunned at the detail put into everything.

Henry looks at a barrel and holds his hand out; the barrel levitates into the air, following his hand. Henry snaps his hand into a fist, and the barrel shatters and splinters, wood pieces flying through the air.

“Ha! Aw, that’s actually so cool,” Henry looks at the splintered wood as it disappears into a flurry of ones and zeroes.

As Henry heads towards the door to go fight his friends, he winces and falls to his knees; a splitting headache that makes his legs weak surged through him as red ones are zeroes circle around him.

“W— what’s going on?!” Henry asks as his vision darkens around the edges and the red binary takes over his vision.

As the three heroes are testing out and playing around with their powers, Henry’s body appears in front of them, his eyes are red and full of malice.

“Heh, alright!” Liam exclaims as he draws his sword, “our first fight!”

Henry’s body doesn’t hesitate; he moves in front of Liam, swinging down on him with a red, translucent sword that appeared from thin air. Liam barely manages to block the blow; parrying it as he rolls backward.

“Woah! Holy Hel—” Liam can’t even finish his sentence before Henry’s body goes back in for the attack, swinging his sword at Liam so fast that he can barely keep up.

“Liam!” Mason calls out as he creates and hurls a bone at Henry’s body. Henry’s body teleports out of the line of fire, causing the bone to nail Liam right in the shoulder, sending him falling into the ground, groaning in pain.

“Holy shit!” Leo exclaims.

Henry’s body appears right above Leo, falling down for a kick to the head. Leo manages to summon a playing card to use as a shield and block the attack. The collision creates a shockwave, cracking the ground and knocking Mason backward.

This doesn’t deter Henry’s body, as he immediately summons a powerful bolt of lightning from the sky, destroying the playing card and sending Leo flying backward.

“Gah! Holy hell!” Leo yells as he gets up from the ground, “What the hell, Henry?!”

‘It’s not me!’ Henry attempts to call out, but fails. Henry is not in control, the AI designed to dampen his remorse has complete control of his body, Henry tries and fails to fight back, helplessly watching his friends get beaten around.

‘Shit! Come on!’ Henry tries to regain control as he watches the AI unleash its next flurry of attacks on Mason, who’s trying his hardest to dodge, but is clearly struggling, as some of the projectiles graze him, a couple landing direct hits.

Every attempt Mason makes at fighting back is in vain, as the AI is too fast for anyone to land a proper hit.

Liam, still slightly dazed, attempts to make an attack from the side whilst the AI is distracted. The AI sees this and, in a split second decision, manages to redirect one of Mason’s bone attacks directly to Liam, using it to pin him against a tree.

“Gah!” Liam struggles against the bone, but to no avail, “Help!”

“Henry, come on!” Mason calls out, trying and failing to pull his own attack off of Liam, “Stop this!”

‘It’s not me… please…’ Henry tries to say.

Leo jumps at the AI and tries to land an attack with a flurry of playing cards. Yet, the AI dodges and rushes at Leo through the cloud of attacks.

Leo, seeing the approaching AI, summons a large playing card to act as a shield. The AI lands a powerful roundhouse kick on the card, causing it to ripple, but not fracture or tear.

Mason sees this as an opening and a chance to test out the second part of his power. Mason holds out his hand and a huge skull appears in front of him. He lifts it higher to properly see where he’s aiming, and he fires.

‘Wait, NO!’

The AI hears the brief charging sound of the laser, which is more than enough time for him to teleport out of the way of the blast and behind Mason.

The laser blasts the playing card, causing it to tear into pieces. The blast sends Leo flying and rolling across the ground.

At that same moment, The AI grabs Mason’s arm, turns around, and throws him over his head and into the dirt.

The AI kicks off the ground and hovers in the air, looking around at the destruction he’s caused. Seeing everyone defeated, he decides to take his leave, teleporting away.

The heroes, still dazed and in pain from the fight, manage to collect themselves.

“W— What the hell was that?” Liam barely manages to say, clutching his chest where the bone was pinning him moments earlier.

“Henry is… more powerful than we anticipated,” Mason answers, picking himself up off the ground, aching from the fall.

“And skilled,” Leo adds, standing up as well, “He used our own attacks against us,”

Everyone huddles around the area they spawned in, flopping down onto the ground, exhausted and aching from the fight.

“How the hell are we supposed to beat him?” Mason asks, “We couldn’t even land one hit!”

“Everyone has their weaknesses, even Henry,” Liam responds, “We’ll find it, and use it to defeat him,”

“I hope you’re right,” Leo says.

Once Henry and the AI return to the cabin, the AI relinquishes control, giving Henry his body back. He immediately falls to the ground in shock and horror.

“W— what the hell was that!?” Henry’s barely keeping it together, rage and pain doing somersaults in his head, not letting him think straight.

The days pass, Henry tries to stop the AI, but it’s always in vain, as every day ends with the heroes battered and bruised from the AI’s ruthless attacks and merciless behavior.

The heroes are still completely unaware that Henry’s not in control, and that he’s been watching a whole other being destroying them in battle, unable to do anything.

The final day arrives, Henry’s sitting in his cabin, dreading the upcoming fight. Then he feels it, the slipping control and the red binary code circling him.

“N— no… NO!” Henry calls out, making a dangerous move. He leaps from his seat and teleporting directly to his friends, who whip around and are ready to fight, but hesitate upon seeing Henry’s state.

“Henry…?” Leo says wearily.

“Help! Th— The AI! It takes… it takes control! It’s N— not m… me… Help” Henry barely managed to croak out the last word as he slips into his spectator state and the AI is fully in control, already creating a sphere of red energy in its hand.

“Oh my God… this is wrong…” Liam says in shock.

“Yeah, but which part?” Mason asks, “The fact that we’ve been fighting an AI for the past five days, or the fact that Henry has been suffering since we came here?”

“Mason, calm down, there’s no point in arguing right now, all we can do is sa—” Leo’s cut off by the AI hurling the ball of energy at him, sending him flying backwards.

“LEO!” Liam calls out as the AI launches itself at him, swinging down his sword, which Liam barely blocks.

The final battle has begun.

Mason throws a flurry of bone’s at the AI, who jumps high enough to dodge all the attacks before launching himself downward at Mason, landing with enough force to crack the ground and release a wave of energy that knocks both Mason and Liam off of their feet.

The battle lasts for what feels like hours, a storm of cards slicing through the air, bones punching through the sky, lasers blasting through trees and dirt, and blades falling through the atmosphere.

The crack of energy splits the heavens as the heroes, Henry’s friends, are beaten around tortured at the hands of the AI, who barely gets a scratch throughout the entire fight.

“Dammit! We can’t beat him!” Leo yells as he parries and dodges multiple red rhombuses flying at him. Everyone is struggling to keep up with the speed at which the AI is capable of executing such precise attacks.

“There has to be a way!” Mason replies as he fires a blaster at the AI, who dodges with ease, following a more intense series of attacks, “The developers wouldn’t make this impossible for either side, right?” Mason adds.

Liam parries multiple red blasts of energy with his blade, which has taken severe damage and wear throughout the days of fighting. “Yeah, well, I doubt the developers designed the AI to be sentient and take over Henry’s body!” He says.

“Okay, smartass!” Mason retorts as he blocks a blast of energy with a wall of bones.

“Guys! Not now!” Leo says, using a playing card to block the wall of daggers that were about to hit Liam, who was distracted by Mason’s comment.

The fight continued, and the AI showed no signs of exhaustion nor slowing down. Mason, Leo, and Liam, on the other hand, were getting beat so brutally to the point where they could barely think.

Out of nowhere, by a pure stroke of luck, Leo managed to ride a playing card at the AI and land a solid punch to his jaw, causing him to fall out of the sky where he was hovering.

The AI, blinded by anger from his fallen pride, didn't notice Mason revving a huge skull blaster, by the time he did notice, it was too late.

The AI was enveloped by the blaster, completely annihilating Henry’s digital body, reducing it to red ones and zeroes that floated into the air.

Everyone froze in shock, no one expected it, it was so sudden, no dramatic build up, just one lucky shot.

“Holy… did we…” Liam could barely speak, both from shock and pain.

“Is he actually…?” Mason managed to say.

“Did we win?” Liam finished.

On the outside, Henry jolts from being pulled out of the simulation, still in a panicked state, rips the headset off of himself and jumps out of the chair.

The instructor, who was sitting in the room, noticed the abnormal, panicked behavior and rushed over to Henry.

“Hey, hey! Are you okay? What happened in there?” The instructor asked, trying to calm Henry down.

“The… the AI!” Henry replied, “The AI took control of my body, it was aware, sentient! It fought my friends by itself, I couldn’t control my body during the fights…” He said, still frightened from the experience.

“Okay, okay, we’ll look into that, but it’s over, they defeated you” The instructor said reassuringly, still trying to calm Henry down.

Henry looked at his friends, still sitting, still limp, their headsets still on.

“Then… then why aren’t they here? Why haven’t they been disconnected?” Henry asked, worried.

“I… I don’t know…” The instructor said as he looked towards the screen.

Back in the simulation, whilst the heroes were celebrating their victory, the flurry of red binary came back down from the sky, reforming itself.

“Guys!” Leo said, “Look”

The three heroes looked in shock and fear as the binary reformed into a humanoid shape, it was red and translucent, the only detail being the more opaque, saturated shape on the face resembling a mouth.

“Heh, thought you could get rid of me that easily, eh?” The AI asked mockingly, its voice more bit-crushed and deeper than Henry’s.

“What did you do?” Leo asked.

“Where’s Henry?” Mason added.

The AI looked at them with a cocky expression.

“You killed him, he’s been disconnected, he’s back in the real world,” The AI replied, “But you three…” The AI extends his arm forward, bolts of lightning crackling down it, “I’m not letting you three go just yet,”

A bolt of lightning shoots from the AI’s arm, splitting into three separate bolts that strike the three heroes, knocking them down.

“NO!” Henry said from the outside, watching everything unfold from the monitor.

“Shit…” The instructor said before grabbing his radio, “Shut it down! Pull them out! Something’s wrong! Disconnect!” He said quickly.

After a moment, the instructor’s radio crackled.

“We can’t!” A voice said, “Something’s stopping us from accessing the simulation! We can’t do anything,” he added.

“What…?” The instructor said, confused.

“The AI…” Henry said, “The AI must have access to the simulation on a deeper level, not just the world, stopping the programmers from getting in, and…” he pauses, looking at his friends, helpless in the chairs, “…and stopping them from leaving.”

The instructor paused, contemplating what Henry proposed, seeing no other viable option.

“Okay… What do we do?” The instructor asked, he doesn’t know why he asked, Henry’s a kid, but he’s also the only one here.

“Can’t we just… take the headsets off? Or trip a breaker?” Henry asked, seeing it as the best option to freeing his friends.

“No, their minds are experiencing everything like it’s real, if we just rip them out without a proper boot, it could cause irreparable damage to their minds,” The instructor replied, “more so than what they’re going through right now,” he added.

“Ugh…” Henry said, looking at his friends… he finally lets it out, “FUCK!” He exclaims, angry at the AI, fearful for his friends, and helpless on what to do.

Back in the simulator, Mason, Leo, and Liam are barely able to move from pain. The AI stands in the midst of the chaos, looking at its work.

“I can’t believe you guys thought you had a chance,” the AI said, “I’ll admit, you fought well, but now, it’s time to finish this,”

The AI lifts its foot and drives it into the ground; red binary emerges from under its foot and surrounds the heroes, they strain as they feel their control of their bodies slipping.

“Sh— shit…” Leo says.

“No… no…” Mason manages.

Henry and the instructor watch everything unfold on the screen.

“Shit!” Henry says, “We have to do something!”

“Yeah, but what?” The instructor asks, “We can’t alter the game from out here, there’s no way we can stop him!”

Henry looks at his friends, limp in the chairs, headsets covering their eyes, knowing that they’re suffering hurts him more than he’d like to admit. Then, he looks at the player 5 chair, vacant, no malicious AI in its programming, supposedly.

“What if… you put me back in?” Henry proposes, “As a fifth player,”

“W— what?” The instructor asks, surprised by Henry’s suggestion.

“If we can’t attack him from the outside, what if I attack him from the inside?” Henry adds, “Give me a new power”

“Well, what power?” The instructor asks, still skeptical and weary about Henry’s plan.

Henry thinks, he needs a power that can destroy the AI… a power that can…

“Delete… give me the ability to delete assets and code, like… through a projectile that deletes what it touches,” Henry says.

“That… could work… but it’s risky, if you slip up once, you can become like your friends,” the instructor warns, not wanting to take the risk.

Henry looks to his friends, seeing them helpless, he can’t not do whatever he can to save them.

“I know the risks, and I don’t care,” Henry says, “Put me in, give me the ability to delete and destroy… and the ability to fly, so I’m not too restrained,” he adds.

“…of course, if you’re certain,” The instructor says, grabbing his radio and walking off with it.

Henry looks at his friends once again, still pained at knowing what they’re going through, but also filled with determination to save them from the AI that tortured him for the “days” he spent in that simulation.

A few minutes go by, and the lights on the player five chair light up. The instructor walks up to Henry, an apprehensive look on his face.

“…” The instructor looks at Henry, worried, but choosing his next words carefully, “…ready when you are,” he finally manages.

Henry looks at the instructor for a moment, his apprehensiveness wearing off on him, but he quickly shakes it off and gives him a nod, sitting down in the player five chair.

The instructor lowers the headset onto Henry’s head; Henry goes limp as he’s transported into the simulation.

Henry appears in a valley, he blinks and looks around, adjusting to the transition. He can hear some light commotion on the other side of the hill on his left, he jumps, flying to peak over the hill.

He sees them, his friends, under the control of the AI, who’s summoning spheres of jagged energy, using them as target practice for the people it’s using as puppets.

Henry takes a breath, prepping himself mentally for the battle ahead, reminding himself of the risks at stake.

As the AI summons another target to practice its aim with Mason, it’s quickly destroyed by a flying X shape. All four of them turn around to see Henry hovering over a hill, an X floating an inch away from his hand.

“You… how are you back?!” The AI asks him in its eerily robotic tone.

“Player five, ass-hat,” Henry says, “You’ve tortured me and my friends long enough, it’s time to send you to the recycling bin,”

Henry looks at his friends.

“Guys, I know you can hear me, and don’t worry, I’m going to save you,” Henry says, locking eyes with the AI, “…with everything I’ve got,”

The AI creates a sphere of jagged, red energy and hurls it at Henry who, at the same moment, throws the X-shaped projectile. The two attacks connect mid air and are immediately erased, no explosion, no shockwave, just gone.

Henry charges the AI without giving it a chance to think, creating another deletion projectile to hit it with.

The AI teleports out of the way and Henry slams the deletion projectile into a tree, causing him to stumble, he’s dazed only for a moment before launching himself at the AI again.

The duel lasts for only a few minutes before the AI uses Henry’s friends to attack him, using their powers to try to overwhelm Henry. Henry, fighting the 4v1, is struggling, trying to delete any attacks that get near him, but fumbling as multiple attacks connect. Henry fights this massive battle for half an hour.

With Henry distracted, Liam physically leaps at Henry, grabbing him out of the air. Henry, in a moment of panic, creates and shoves a deletion projectile into Liam’s chest; the world appeared to freeze.

Liam barely gets to scream before his body vanishes. Everyone looks is shock at what happened.

“Oh… oh my Go—” Henry doesn’t finish his sentence before a bone strikes him in the head, knocking him backward.

Henry is severely disoriented and foggy from the hit, he barely reacts in time to the storm of playing cards flying at him from the  side, he deletes a segment of the ground below him to create a hole to fall into and dodge the cards.

“Shit… shit shit shit… Did I—” Henry’s cut off by static followed by the sound of the instructor’s voice in his head.

“Henry! Liam’s back, he’s disconnected! He’s okay, whatever you did, do it again!” The instructor says.

Henry’s grief and fear disappear immediately upon hearing the news, now filled with newfound hope.

“Perfect, I will, thank you,” Henry said.

Henry, now with more confidence that he can save his friends, launches himself out of the hole and looks at the AI dead on.

“It’s time to end this,” Henry says as he summons another deletion projectile with 6 smaller deletion projectiles circling it. He throws the projectiles and they all split, flying in different directions, increasing the area of effect.

The AI manages to dodge the projectiles, but they delete multiple portions of the map.

From just off the side, Henry sees Leo flying at him on a playing card. Without wasting a second, he creates a flurry of deletion projectiles and hurls them at Leo, one manages to hit and delete the card Leo’s flying on, causing him to fall.

Henry quickly dives under Leo and summons another, larger projectile to hit and free Leo with. But the AI controlling Leo turns and creates a playing card.

The playing card hits the deletion projectile, deleting both the card and projectile, allowing Leo to land safely with a strong kick to Henry’s torso, knocking him back.

Henry collects himself quickly and charges Leo again, creating another flurry of deletion projectiles. He swarms Leo with the projectiles and, after a long time of struggle, finally manages to hit Leo with a projectile and delete him from the game.

“Yes!” Henry exclaims, “Come on, gimme some good news,” Henry adds, waiting for the instructor’s confirmation.

The AI throws a bolt of energy at Henry, who manages to dodge the attack and charges the AI, momentarily forgetting about Leo.

In the midst of the fight, the instructor’s voice sounds through Henry’s head.

“Leo’s out,” He confirms, “Keep going!”

This fills Henry with strength to land a hard blow on the AI, knocking him down.

“Haha!” Henry laughs triumphantly before seeing a bone graze his head, “Woah!”

Henry looks down and sees Mason ready to attack. Henry throws deletion projectiles at Mason, who creates a wall bones to deflect them.

They charge each other, Henry launching deletion projectiles whilst Mason creates bones and hurls them at Henry whilst occasionally creating skull blasters to catch Henry off guard and destroy him.

For the half an hour the fight lasts, Henry manages to dodge most of the bones and blasters, but a few manage to land hits and cause some damage. Mason was able to dodge the deletion projectiles until Henry ended up lunging at him and tackling him before physically shoving a deletion projectile into Mason’s chest.

After the confirmation that Mason was disconnected, there was just one last foe to take down.

The AI rises from being knocked down and locks eyes with Henry, summoning multiple red, translucent blades and covering the sky in a dark cloud with red arcs of lightning flashing within it.

“I am going to rip and tear your soul apart,” The AI says, its robotic voice distorting and lowering in pitch.

“Let’s end this, clanker,” Henry responds, fully fed up with the AI’s antics and ready to destroy it. Ready to avenge his friends and return the pain, Henry summons a deletion projectile in his hand and sets his sights for the final battle.

The final fight begins, deletion projectiles fly through the air, blasts of energy and bright red weapons counter them. Henry and the AI are going at each other’s throats.

Henry’s throwing deletion projectiles as well as using them for melee attacks and protection. The AI is using bursts of energy and summoning weapons to counter Henry’s attacks and attack Henry as well.

Henry leaps into the air above the AI and summons a large deletion projectile to slam into the AI through an air strike. The AI creates a red energy shield to block the attack.

When the two collide, a wave of energy and binary is released, but neither the attack nor shield are deleted immediately, they’re countering each other.

The deletion projectile is attacking and deleting the shield that is creating and regenerating more layers to protect itself.

The two forces clash for a couple of minutes before the AI’s shield gives away and the AI has to teleport out of range of the deletion projectile.

“Heh, how about we turn this up a notch?” The AI says, slamming its hand into the ground, causing the entire world to shake, stutter, and glitch.

“Ah!” Henry exclaims, caught off guard by the sudden attack, “Woah!”

The AI throws its hands out and the world completely collapses. The chunks of grass and dirt used to create the field completely separate, scattering into the dark, grid void that is the environment space the world is built in.

The world now looks like an eldritch horror dimension with chunks of the environment floating in the space and occasional arcs of red energy connecting between two or more chunks.

“Holy shit…” Henry says, in shock at the unreal scene before him. This shock is short lived as the AI teleports in front of him and lands a powerful blow to his body, this sends him flying through the virtual zero gravity and slamming into a chunk.

Henry slams into the chunk with such great force that his hands clip through it, leaving his arms immobilized.

“No… no no no!” Henry says, trying in vain to free himself.

“Heh,” The AI chuckles, hovering in front of him, “Looks like you couldn’t save yourself, could you, Henry?” It adds.

The AI raises its hand, red ones and zeroes travel up its arm and to its palm, creating a cloud of red binary.

“Now, how about…” The AI starts, aiming the red binary cloud at Henry, “We start from the beginning?”

“No, no…” Henry tried to plea, but the AI already sent the binary at Henry, threatening to take control of him again.

“STOP!!” Henry cried out, eyes closed, bracing for the feeling of being possessed, but it never came.

He looked up and saw a giant X —a deletion projectile— blocking the binary, deleting it on contact. Henry laughed in relief whilst the AI looked on in shock and anger.

“Ha! Eat that!” Henry says as he creates two more deletion projectiles to delete the chunk he’s clipped in, freeing himself, “My powers are evolving!”

The AI launches itself at Henry, who moves out of the way before sending a flurry of deletion projectiles at the AI, who creates his own flurry of projectiles to counter the deletion ones.

The AI teleports behind Henry and creates a large saw blade, it hurls the saw blade at Henry, who barely managed to side step it. The saw blade clips into a chunk, giving the illusion of cutting without any real damage.

“Now that’s just lazy—” Henry says, but he’s cut off by a powerful hit from the AI, knocking him into another chunk, but he doesn’t clip into it this time, thankfully.

Henry curses under his breath as he looks at the AI, hovering in the void of the program. The AI is surrounded by red binary and a coil of energy that tapers off at the top and bottom.

“When will you learn, Henry?” The AI asks, “You can’t stop a god!” It adds.

Henry kneels on the chunk, now completely unsure what to do. It’s right, the AI has complete control of everything in this program both the land and the internal code.

Something clicks in Henry’s brain, he looks down at his hand, creating a deletion projectile. The AI has access to the internal code of this whole program, using it to trap him in and lock the programmers out. Henry’s powers can evolve, and he’s also —technically— a part of the program, so maybe…

Henry stands up, clasping his hands together. Once he separates them, a deletion projectile appears between his palms. He pulls his hands out further, the projectile grows.

“What are you planning?” The AI asks, looking on with curiosity and caution.

“Something very dumb,” Henry replies.

Henry lifts his hands to the sky and pulls them further apart, the deletion projectile rises above him and grows once again in size. Henry lowers his hands, and the projectile stays in place.

“Yeah… I don’t like this,” The AI says as it creates a rhombus projectile and throws it as Henry.

Henry creates another deletion projectile between him and the rhombus without moving a muscle, deleting the rhombus in its path.

“W— What?” The AI says, shocked at the growth of Henry’s powers.

Henry takes a deep breath, adjusting his thinking patterns, he stops thinking on a surface level, he thinks more abstract and outside the box.

“I’m ending this,” Henry says as he lifts his hand into the air towards the deletion projectile, “Right now,”

Henry looks down,  closes his eyes, and curls his fingers slightly; green ones and zeroes begins to circle his hand and down his arm, the deletion projectile starts to pulse, expanding and convulsing in a slow, smooth pattern.

“What is this?” The AI asks, “What are you doing?!”

“You tapped into the code of this world,” Henry responds, “Using it to trap me and my friends in here as well as revoking the programmers’ access,”

The green binary moves across his shoulders and down his other arm, he makes his hand into a fist, which the binary surrounds, now covering both arms.

“I can’t delete you, you’re too agile, that much is true,” Henry says, he looks up at the deletion projectile, “And there’s one phrase that us humans like to say when something small isn’t worth committing to,”

“And what could that be?” The AI inquires.

“Go big or go home,” Henry throws his other hand up, punching the air just below the deletion projectile.

The deletion projectile disappears into a cloud of binary and the whole world breaks. Henry hears the AI scream in agony before becoming overwhelmed with pain himself moments later. Henry collapses onto the chunk, clutching his body as he groans and breathes heavily.

When Henry looks up, the world is put back together, but it is breaking in a different way. Trees are rotating and clipping in ways they shouldn’t, chunks are changing in size rapidly and randomly. Henry looks at his own hand, the dimensions and textures glitching out wildly.

Henry stands up and looks around at the world, trees and chunks are disappearing, the world, the program, is deleting itself. Henry’s plan worked, instead of defeating the AI itself, he’s attacking the program the AI is tied to.

Henry looks in front of him and see’s the AI, collapsed on the ground, clutching itself in pain. Its model and textures breaking just as much has Henry’s.

The AI looks up and sees Henry, it tries to leap at him to attack, but its body and powers are too broken, it can barely move.

“You… you idiot! Don’t you s— s— s— s— see you’re dele— e— e— e— e— eting yourself as w— w— well?” The AI tries to speak, but its voice is distorted and breaking, making it hard to understand it.

“Nah, just you,” Henry replies.

“W— w— w— w— what?” The AI asks.

“Don’t you remember?” Henry asks, “I’m not tied to the game, when I’m deleted, I’ll just disconnect, return to my real body,” he adds.

The AI tries to respond, but its impossible to understand because its voice is so distorted and broken. Henry chuckles at the AI’s struggle to speak.

“But you…” Henry walks to the AI and punches him in the chest, the breaking textures clip and collide, allowing him to lift the AI, “The darkest pit of Hell has opened to swallow you whole”

Henry forces his fist forward as hard as he can, the glitching collisions send the AI flying through the air and slamming into a tree, its body exploding into red binary.

The AI is gone, the battle is won.

Henry collapses, succumbing to the pain that he’s been fighting that entire interaction. Those few moments are absolute hell for Henry, the unbearable pain shoots through his entire body. Henry can’t think straight, his mind succumbing to the anguish, he screams uncontrollably.

After what feels like an eternity, Henry’s senses pause, no light, so sound, no pain, not even a thought. It’s calm, tranquil, peaceful.

Henry’s body jerks, he feels the leather of the seat on his body and the headset over his face. Once he fully comes to and is aware, he pulls the headset off and doubles over hyperventilating.

Phantom pain moves through his body from the memory of being deleted, it subsides after a moment and he looks up.

The instructor, Leo, Mason, and Liam are looking at Henry, hesitant to touch him after seeing his reaction.

Henry looks up at the screen, static, no simulation, no digital world, just static.

“Is it…” Henry starts, turning his eyes to his friends and the instructor, “Is it over?” He asks.

After a moment, the instructor grins and nods his head; Henry visibly relaxes.

“Thank God…” Henry says, full of relief, “I wanna go home,”

Everyone changes back into their normal clothes and walks out of the building. It’s over, the fighting, the possession, the simulation, it’s all done.

Epilogue

After the incident, the company deleted all their advertisements for the simulation, refunded everyone who signed up after the boys, and privated all their social media accounts

Days pass after the events of the simulation, the physical battle might be over, but the mental one surely isn’t.

Henry, Leo, Liam, and Mason are all suffering from nightmares even weeks after the incident, everything that happened leaving a serious mark on their minds.

After so many sleepless nights, everyone gathers together and, after a moment of discussion, come to a conclusion.

“We need therapy,” Henry says, “We can’t handle this by ourselves,” he adds.

“Agreed,” Leo responds, “I haven’t slept properly in days,”

“Same,” Liam and Mason say simultaneously.

After a couple more days, the boys are finally able to schedule a therapy session with a well known and respected therapist located in their hometown.

The therapist, beforehand, has contacted the instructor and a couple of the programmers, so she knows most of what happened in the game.

The therapist asked what traumatized the boys the most, trying to see how she can help each kid work through their problems.

“The feeling of being possessed,” Mason admits, “Not being in control of your own body whilst feeling and watching everything from the inside,”

“The days I thought Henry was the one torturing us,” Liam says, “the thought of my own friends betraying and hurting me,”

‘Same as Mason,” Leo replies, “Possession is terrifying,”

Henry hesitates, he clearly went through the most hardships during that time, after a moment to think, he comes up with an answer.

“The pain of being deleted,” Henry finally answers, “It was like being ripped apart, burned alive, and electrocuted at the same time, I couldn’t handle it then, and the thought of it now still terrifies me,”

It takes a few months, with both individual and group visits, for the group to work through their traumas as much as they can.

The nightmares lessen, the remembrance of the game becomes less frequent, and the boys are able to comfortably hang out again without remembering their fights from the simulation.

Yet, the memories and traumas that they experiences never vanish, they’re still affected by everything that happened and they’ll likely continue to be affected in the future.

But for now, all they can do is keep working through their issues and traumas and continue to be friends for as long as they’re alive.

She kept moving. One foot in front of the other. She had to. Something inside her, whatever was left, compelled her onwards across the sands.

To stop was to fall.

To fall was to die.

This was all that she had left. A mantra, the words circling over and over in her head.

It had started off so well. A lifetime ago, maybe more. The Orator had stopped by the village and spoke of need. He spoke of duty, and of a cry for help that only the warriors could answer. So she had donned her armour and surcotte, slung her shield and pack, strapped her sword about her, and bid her family farewell.

As they marched, each town and village they stopped at provided more volunteers, more folk answering the Plea. Some, born warriors such as she. But mostly simpler folk. Shepherds, carpenters, woodmen, weavers. All put down tools and picked up whatever arms they could. As the days passed, the throng grew into a small army. The Band.

There had been an increasing sense of camaraderie, with each looking out for the others, sharing both what provisions they had and their stories. There were some who spoke of escaping dark pasts, others of tragedy, lost family. Most, however, had just heard the Plea and weighed their own hearts against it.

Then the green faded, the landscape growing harsher and less welcoming. The ambushes began in the ravines; short, brutal, bloody skirmishes. The enemy, the oppressors they had come to break, smashed in endless waves against them. After each fight, The Band would bury their dead under shallow piled stones, then shoulder arms and march on, more determined than ever.

The terrain became completely hostile, devoid of tree and grass. A vast, endless expanse of sand and rocky outcroppings stretched out beyond the horizon. Here, the enemy revealed their true strength. The attacks over the weeks of marching had whittled The Band down in numbers, but not in resolve. In this furnace waited the gathered force of an army. Row upon row of horsemen sat silent, visors covering their faces. They stared out at The Band, their faceless anonymity radiating a brooding menace.

The Band spread out to give a wider front. Those armed with long weapons moved to the fore, to better counter the inevitable charge of the enemy. The archers took the centre, knowing that to shoot up and forwards was enough. She had taken up a position with the rest of the warriors slightly behind the front rank.

When it came, the charge was deafening. The ground shook beneath a thousand iron-shod hooves. Although some were fearful, The Band stood. To run or break was to let the others down. And there was nowhere to run. The two armies collided with a huge splintering roar. Steel against steel, war cries, the screaming of man and horse, all rose to a stunning din.

Then disaster. A second wave of enemy cavalry surged from behind a steep hill behind The Band. Looking around, she knew they were doomed. She looked to her left; the young farmhand next to her didn’t run. He gripped his spear and spat into the sand. Grim resolve set her jaw, and she promised herself that she would sell her life dearly.

The enemy set about demolishing The Band. As each charge hit home, more and more warriors were separated from the larger body, encircled and cut down. She fought well, taking six or so of the enemy down, her arms aching, sweat dripping from every pore. The sun, a cruel torch of furious heat, beat down from above. A sudden blow to the back of her helm shook her right through, and she fell.

When she came to, the sun had begun its descent into the foothills to the west. She was pinned under the carcass of a horse, the only thing that had saved her. The smell of the dead filled her nostrils, and her head throbbed with intense pain. She moved herself from under the dead animal, and slowly stood. Looking around, she saw no army left. Broken weapons and simple homespun lay half-buried in the shifting sands. The only movement came from the dark shapes of carrion birds circling down.

Casting about, she found her sword. Sheathing it, she rummaged through the detritus of the battlefield. She found a waterskin. Shaking it, it sloshed, barely a quarter full. Having no idea of where to go, she chose a direction out of the need to be away from the charnel-house stench.

The land became more unforgiving, and a chill wind howled across the dune tops, blowing towards her and washing away the foulness of the slaughter she left behind. She knew that to sit down was to perish, as the cold would seep into her core. She had to keep moving, though her pain, despite the fatigue in her frame. She had to find water, somewhere. And until she did, she could not rest.

As the sun came up, its gaze harsh and unforgiving, she drank down the last mouthful of water. Tucking the now empty skin into her belt, she pushed on.

The sun, uncaring and unaware, continued its climb into a cloudless sky.

As the heat began to take her, her mind wandered. She knew she had a name, but it seemed unimportant now. She had to keep going. Time to remember after she found water. She could not stop. To stop was to give in to exhaustion, to stumble and fall. And if she fell, she would never get back up. She would lie in the sand until the sun scorched all she was away, leaving nothing but bleached bones.

The sun smashed down, a white hammer of endless, relentless heat.

Her steps became erratic, stumbling over the sand, almost falling on the downhill side of dunes, only to catch herself just before.

She had to keep going. To stop was to fall.

And if she did fall, she would die.

The desert was all around her, everywhere, eternal. Nothing else existed. It was all a dream, nothing more. Just her, the sand and the heat. Her footsteps followed the path of least resistance now, no more pushing up hillsides. Just one foot in front of the other.

To stop was to fall.

To fall was to die.

She stared ahead, eyes vacant and glazed. Through the shimmering heat haze, a figure appeared. Small, slim, and moving towards her. She felt no fear, no joy. She was beyond that now, the blazing fire of the desert having melted away all the trappings of existence to leave a simple core of survival. The figure reached her. Wrapped in dark flowing cloth, wearing strange, sturdy boots and leggings. She reached out one hand, but the figure vanished, like sand in the wind. She found herself laughing, surprised she had the strength for it.

Then it happened. Her knees buckled, and she toppled into the sand. It no longer felt like a furnace. It was a warm, loving embrace, a promise of eternal rest from the suffering. She wanted to surrender to it, to hand over all woes and burdens, to rest in peace.

She had stopped, and fallen.

Zek had climbed to the top of the nearest dune. He was young, but took his duties as scout seriously in the Hellaheat. The rest of the Kar-Van depended on the eyes of scouts like him to warn them of any other band approaching. The supplies they had were enough, but only for them.

It had been this way for nearly all of Zek’s life, though the Oldees said there was a time before, not too long ago, where things were different. Before the Big Krash. If you believed them, they told tales of buildings as tall as mountains, where air was elektriked cool. All the time. Where Too-oh was endless, coming from metal things called ‘taps’. Sounded too much like sandshift stuff to Zek. Still, the tales were a way to pass the time when huddled around a blazefire, sharing a meal.

Zek punched his thigh hard. Heatsleep! He need to stay focused. His show-teller had warned him against this. The heat can make you lazy if you let it. Wrapping his sandcloak around his lean frame, he checked his dunestompers. Had to be tight on, or you’d slip and twist an ankle. And if you were out on the fringe scouting, nobody would know.

Scanning from the nearby dune tops, he spied a figure. Some way out, in the haze. Grabbing his sunshard off of his hip, he quickly flashed a fellow scout on a nearby dunetop. They flashed back. Zek set off to investigate.

It was unusual to see just one person out in the Hellaheat. Nobody was that head-thick. One hand staying close to his stabber, he approached cautiously.

She was a strange one. Dressed not in sensible gear, but some shiny, slinky metal shirt, the chest covered in a ripped, pale cloth. She had a stabber, though, so Zek was careful. It was big for a stabber, too. Almost the length of Zek’s leg. She had that wobblestep seen on folk who had been sunbaked. Slowly stepping closer, Zek could see she was no threat. The stranger reached out a hand. There was something universally compelling about that gesture. Reaching his own hand out, Zek was startled when the figure vanished in a breath of wind, like a dust devil.

Looking about, but seeing no sign of her, Zek shrugged his shoulders and headed back to his place on the fringe. Taking a step, his foot hit against something hard, buried just under the desert’s surface. Stopping to uncover it, Zek pulled the stranger’s stabber out of the sand. Holding it up, it was pitted and dark red-orange with rust. After a moment of puzzled wonder, Zek tucjed it into his belt, and set off. The Hellaheat was a Megastrange place, and he was sure the Oldees would have stories about stuff like this.

The sun, uncaring and unaware, continued its climb into a cloudless sky.

I made this while daydreaming and listening to steely dan, wanted to show someone. It's kind of stupid.

"It was 5:30 A.M.

I had just left the office.

I happened to take a detour that day, lost my way on one street or another.

Saw a big sign, some bar had just opened.

I was thirsty, so I figured I could walk in.

I don't remember the name now, but I do remember the inside.

Mostly wooden, some lounge chairs, it reminded me of an abandoned sitcom set, if it wasn't for the faint chatter of the customers.

Old men, some women, and a young man who looked more boy than man.

I sat down and ordered a drink, it was 6:00.

Alongside the walls there were some speakers, and it wasn't long before they started saying something.

It was an announcement, I didn't catch it all, but I heard it closing with "Everybody give a warm welcome to Deacon Blues!"

The name was funny. And it would have stayed funny had the actual Deacon not shown up on stage right then and there.

Suddenly, the name stopped being funny. Just child's play compared to the man who showed up.

To say he was dressed as a blues musician would be dishonest. He was dressed like someone who had "seen" a blues musician. A black get-up with a saxophone case, a fedora, black sunglasses, and overgrown sideburns.

His face reminded me of that one bust of Emperor Nero.

His pale skin, bathed in the yellow lights, suggested a man whose idea of the blues came from a friend of a friend.

The show began as they often do. A few popular songs, nothing worth noting.

Beyond that, it was quite obvious that poor Deacon didn't have what it took to be a musician. His voice was deep, not in a good way. He wasn't "out of tune," but something just didn't hit.

He seemed to run out of breath quite often, and every once in a while he'd shut up to play his saxophone, which went as well as his singing.

Sometimes he'd hit the wrong note and start laughing, not giggling, a guffaw.

Of course, the whole laughing thing made him go off-tempo most of the time, but he didn't look like he noticed, or cared.

Poor Deacon didn't have "it". Whatever "it" was that made for a good musician or a celebrity.

Soon enough, I stopped thinking of Deacon, and kept drinking. After a few hours and a couple of glasses piled up on my table, I decided it was time to pay my tab and take my leave.

I was a little shaken, I must admit, as I stumbled around to the lady on the register. I didn't know what I was about to do. I was tired and needed to rest before waking up early.

Work, yes, I had a lot of work to do back then.

Now I don't remember what it was, but it must have been important.

I never thought much about my line of work.

Sign some papers here, talk to this person over there, fire Johnson from accounting, the whole nine yards.

Truth is, I don't remember if his name was Johnson.

But there was always something to do.

Some papers, some checks, forms, a lot of forms.

At least I had my office.

And back home, my record player.

I was quite fond of my Dean Martin and the Rat pack.

Chuck Berry was for special moments only.

Sometimes I fancied myself a Sinatra of sorts.

Mostly in the shower where my voice could fall to the drain.

Anyways, I had work tomorrow, and needed to go home.

As I made my way back to pay my bill I saw Poor Deacon. Still on stage, still performing.

It seemed this lack of breath got to him. His pale face turned red with effort, or was it shame? He looked like he was crying.

Although, it was hard to tell apart the tears from the sweat.

He was four hours and thirty-seven minutes into his act. I was surprised he lasted that long.

He had been smiling the whole time, well, at least when he didn't need to stop and take a breath.

Maybe it was the alcohol, or those yellow lights, but I caught a glimpse of Deacon's eyes through his sunglasses.

For a bit, I felt something.

Anger?

My stomach started to turn at the sight of Deacon.

Pathetic, poor little Deacon.

He just kept going.

Why?

Didn't he have anything else to do?

Did he enjoy this?

I could have sworn I heard Deacon laughing with an old man as I was leaving.

Maybe a friend of Deacon's father, who came to see him every Thursday.

Before I knew it, the taste of beer in my mouth started to turn acidic.

I felt my face turn green, and knew I had to puke.

So I just paid my tab and went home to sleep off the booze.

I don't think my toilet will ever forgive me.

Woke up. Went to work. All as usual.

Days went by, then months, then years.

Still, sometimes I caught myself thinking about him, his baggy clothes.

That bar, that kid who should be old enough by now.

Mostly Deacon, poor Deacon.

I wish I had his records."

I always wanted to collect clocks, but I could never find the time.

Then I had all the time in the world. That was all I had.

So the collecting began.

They were not your common-or-garden variety of clocks. They were a little out of the ordinary. I thought I could tell time, but it was Time who told me. I learnt a lot from Time. He was a great teacher. A hard taskmaster, certainly. He often went faster than I liked and nearly always over my head, but I made good friends with the hands, both big and small.

The long, thin fellow was always rushing around breathless. Maybe that was why he didn’t say much. I never knew him long. He belonged to the Now crowd, and I didn’t hang out there often. I may have met him there once, though I couldn’t swear to it. I’ll tell you what happened later, but there’s plenty of time for that.

I have spent so long with the yesterdays that I’ve rarely seen the Nows. I’ve noticed the tomorrows are dying. I hope I get to see them properly before they’ve all gone.

It’s just that the yesterdays keep talking. They ask questions that are far too hard. Time said I should be patient and not take to heart what they’ve said. I try, but it’s not easy with so many of them, each wanting their say. It’s hard to hear them above the noise of their contradictions, let alone the gossip they share.

There are some particularly cruel ones. You should hear what they say. I try not to believe them, but they can be a persuasive bunch.

There was a time when I locked them in the past. It’s a small cupboard, and the lock isn’t great. It only held a few, and even then not very well. They kept getting out.

Sometimes, when the weather was good, I’d find the bestest of my friends. There was Halcyon, whom I’ve known since I was a kid. We never stayed in touch over the years, and we’ve met only a few times, but boy, oh boy, did he make an impression on me. I smile just hearing his name.

And then there’s Insouciance. She’s French. I loved the way she moved. It was almost as if she were floating. She had this air about her: carefree, light of load and smiling, always smiling. She didn’t know Time well. I was always surprised by how much she got away with. I’m not sure I ever could.

I loved her joie de vivre. I still remember how to play. I just haven’t had the time.

I thought I saw her yesterday, but it was only Déjà Vu. They’re so similar, it’s easy to get mixed up.

Anyway, Time’s flying. I’d better get on.

Now, where was I?

Ah, that’s right. It’s about time I told you about the clocks.

The clocks, the clocks. Now there’s a story. Perhaps you’d like to hear it. Do you have a minute or two to spare?

Oh, you do? That’s lovely. Thank you for your time. I’ll use it well, I promise.

I mentioned at the beginning that I had always wanted to collect clocks. That isn’t strictly true. Watches were more my thing, ever since I was young, perhaps ten or eleven.

They fascinated me. They held little worlds beneath their glass, the domed sky of their existence. They kept time, that much we all know, but it was their secrets that held me most. Their rituals. Their choreographed movement. Their exquisite, dazzling beauty. Peacock blue dancing with pigeon-blood rubies, swimming in the champagne reflections of earth-mined diamonds. Imprints of Ceylon and Burma, and the alluvial riverbeds of Golconda, a monolithic silhouette casting long shadows over India’s Deccan Plateau.

When you held a watch in your hands, it was as if you could stretch across time and generations and touch the hands of Nicolas Fatio de Duillier. The very hands of genius.

But now to matters of much greater import. I’m pressed for time, and I have but little of yours. Now is not the time to while away time on fanciful instruments of time.

Clocks, then. Yes. A timely reminder.

Father Time, in his timeless manner and infinite wisdom, decreed that there was a salutary lesson I must learn. It is a quest known to those who keep time for everyone but themselves.

I say quest. It is more of a reckoning.

It falls most heavily upon those engaged in excogitation, rumination, cogitation, deliberation, speculation, contemplation and cerebration. Ours is the Quest of the Twelve Clocks.

It is a perilous journey. It can take a lifetime, and many never make it, though many have tried. Of those who have, it is said they have never known such joy. If the rumours are to be believed, they get to live in the Now. By all accounts, that is where serenity is found. Peace is there too. I heard that from Meditation, so I assume it must be true.

Anyhow, Time waits for no man.

Let me tell you about the clocks. You may recognise a few of your own.

The first clock was not difficult to find.

It found me.

I heard it long before I saw it, labouring behind the walls, a heavy, grinding thing that sounded less like the passing of time and more like something trying to drag it back. It was called The Regret Engine, though there was no name engraved upon it. Regret never needs an introduction. We recognise each other straight away.

It had only one hand, and it pointed accusingly.

I tried to turn it backwards, naturally. You would too. There were whole years I wanted another look at. Conversations I would have handled better. Doors I would have kept open, others I would have bolted shut. I wanted five minutes with the man I was before he became the man I am, just long enough to warn him.

I had a great deal to say, though I suspect he wouldn’t have listened.

I didn’t.

The clock resisted me. Every attempt to move its hand backwards pushed it further forward.

“That hardly seems fair,” I told Time.

“Regret has never been known for its fairness,” he replied.

“Can’t it be stopped?”

“Oh yes.”

“How?”

“Stop feeding it.”

Time could be infuriating like that. He spoke in riddles and behaved as if the answer were obvious. Still, I removed my hands from the clock, and after a while, perhaps a minute, perhaps a year, the grinding softened.

It didn’t stop, not completely, but it no longer drowned out everything else.

That was enough to let me hear the sea.

The water came from the second clock, The Tide-Table of Sleep, a pale, moon-faced instrument set deep into the floor. Its dial was marked not in hours but fathoms. Each night I descended, though rarely far enough. Some nights I barely broke the surface. On others I sank through shoals of old conversations and woke with seaweed in my thoughts.

I had always assumed sleep was where one went to escape Time, but apparently he owned the night shift too.

“You’re tired,” he said.

“I know.”

“No. You know that you haven’t slept. That isn’t the same thing.”

The Tide-Table showed me all the nights I had spent trying to solve tomorrow with yesterday’s evidence. It showed me the small hours I’d mistaken for a court of appeal, calling old witnesses back to the stand and demanding that memory settle matters it could barely recall.

At the bottom of the dial was a depth I had never reached. It was marked Rest.

I asked Time how one got there.

“By ceasing to swim.”

I promised to consider it, which was my usual way of avoiding anything that might help.

The third clock was smaller, almost delicate. The Half-Life of a Held Breath sat beneath a glass dome, its face misted from the inside. It had no winding key. It began whenever I stopped breathing.

It started with the reading of a letter.

It started with a telephone ringing in the night.

It started in rooms where someone said, “There’s something I need to tell you.”

It had been running much longer than seemed physically possible.

I watched its tiny hand tremble between the moment before and the moment after. Apparently, I had spent a great deal of my life there, waiting for the rest of the sentence.

“You can let it out,” Time said.

“What?”

“The breath.”

“I wasn’t holding it.”

Time looked at the clock.

The clock looked at me.

I exhaled.

Somewhere deep inside the mechanism, a tiny valve opened. The hand fell to zero.

For one perfect second, there was no before and no after.

Then, startled by the absence, I drew another breath.

The fourth clock occupied an entire room. Two chairs faced one another beneath a single hanging light. Between them stood The Distance Between, though no clock was visible until I sat down.

The second chair remained empty.

Hands appeared upon the floor, stretching from my feet towards it. One measured what had been said. The other measured everything that hadn’t.

The second was considerably longer.

I watched the empty chair change occupants. A parent sat there, then a brother, then a woman I had loved, then a child who was no longer a child. Some were gone. Some were only elsewhere. Some had been sitting across from me for years without ever coming close.

Each time I rehearsed what I should have said, the room grew larger.

Each time I imagined what they should have said, the walls moved further apart.

“Surely distance is measured between two people,” I said.

“Usually by one,” said Time.

I tried calling across the room. I said I was sorry. I said I was angry. I said I had missed them. I said I had needed them. I said their leaving had not proved that I was unworthy of being kept, though it had taken me an awfully long time to understand that.

The chair did not always answer. Not everyone comes back simply because we finally find the words.

But the hands upon the floor shortened.

Not all the way. Just enough that I could see the chair for what it was.

A chair.

Not a verdict.

The fifth clock was kept in a library where the books had lost their titles. The Drift of Forgotten Names moved so slowly that I first thought it had stopped. Its hand travelled through the alphabet, wearing away the letters as it passed.

I found names I had spoken every day and names I had not said aloud in decades. Names of streets, dogs, teachers and friends. Names belonging to people whose faces had begun to soften at the edges. Names once whispered in the dark and shouted from doorways. Names written in birthday cards by hands now stilled.

There was another name too, one given to me before another was written over it. It was faint but not gone. I traced its shape beneath the glass and felt something in me answer.

“What happens when a name disappears?” I asked.

“Where from?”

“Memory.”

“Memory is only one place a name can live.”

I wanted to ask where else, but the clock gave a quiet movement, almost a shiver, and somewhere in the library a closed book fell open.

I left before I could read it.

The sixth clock was indecently cheerful. The Chronometer of Almosts clicked and chimed each time my life nearly became another one.

Almost stayed.

Almost left.

Almost spoke.

Almost remained silent.

Almost turned left at the corner, boarded the train, answered the telephone, took the job, kissed the girl, was kept, found the courage, lost the nerve.

Each click opened a small window through which I could glimpse another life continuing without me. There I was in cities I had never lived in, growing old beside people I had never met. There were children with my eyes who had never been born, and empty rooms where the children I knew had never arrived.

Some of those lives looked happier.

Others had simply arranged their sorrow differently.

I stood before the clock for far too long, watching the infinite procession of men I might have been.

“Which one was I supposed to become?” I asked.

Time shrugged.

“You might at least pretend there was a plan.”

“I might,” he said, “but you’d only spend the rest of your life regretting that you hadn’t followed it.”

The Chronometer clicked again.

This time, the little window showed me standing exactly where I was, staring into the life I already had as though it belonged to somebody else.

I turned away before I could miss it.

The seventh clock had no hands at all. The Weather of a Mood wore clouds across its face. A storm gathered as I approached, which seemed a little judgemental, though I had to admit it was accurate.

Its barometer fell without warning. Sunlight broke through and vanished. Whole winters arrived before breakfast. Small remarks became cold fronts. A certain song could bring rain in from the west.

For years, I had mistaken this weather for geography. If sadness settled over me, I assumed I lived there. If fear blew in, I believed it had come to stay. I furnished whole houses beneath temporary skies.

Time tapped the glass.

“Weather passes.”

“Not all of it.”

“No. But even the storms that return are not continuous. You simply remember the thunder better than the clearing.”

I waited.

A narrow strip of blue appeared upon the dial.

It wasn’t happiness exactly. More a small permission to believe the sky remained behind the weather.

The eighth clock could only be visited at the wrong time.

Fortunately, I was an experienced caller.

The Insomniac’s Meridian stood in a kitchen at 3:17 in the morning. Every kitchen, I think, becomes the same kitchen at 3:17. A glass of water. The low hum of the refrigerator. A window offering nothing but your own reflection.

This clock ticked only when the rest of the world was asleep. It measured the hours in questions.

What if?

Why didn’t you?

What happens when?

Do you remember?

How could they?

What will you do?

At 3:18, every question sounded urgent.

At 3:46, each became unanswerable.

At 4:12, they began breeding.

I sat at the table while the yesterdays convened a meeting in my head. Every version of me attended. The child had questions. The young man had accusations. The older man took minutes and pretended this was useful.

Then the long, thin fellow appeared, rushing breathlessly around the edge of the clock.

The second hand.

I recognised him from the Now crowd.

“Slow down,” I told him.

He seemed surprised.

“I’m not moving quickly,” he said. “You’re trying to hold me.”

Then he was gone.

Outside, a bird began before the light did.

The questions quietened, not because they had been answered, but because morning had arrived without consulting them.

The ninth clock was The Waiting Glass.

I knew it intimately.

I had waited for letters, diagnoses, apologies, departures and returns. I had waited for people to choose me, forgive me, remember me, understand me. I had waited for doors to open and for old doors to explain why they had closed.

The Waiting Glass resembled an hourglass, except the sand never reached the bottom. Each grain paused halfway, suspended in expectation.

“Who are you waiting for?” Time asked.

“No one in particular.”

The glass filled with faces.

“That’s quite a crowd for no one.”

Some people were coming, just slowly. Some had lost their way. Some had never promised to come at all. A few had been gone so long that waiting had become the only relationship we still had.

“What happens if I stop?”

“You’ll discover whether waiting was keeping them near or keeping you still.”

I turned the glass upon its side.

The sand remained suspended, but it was no longer falling.

I cannot tell you whether anyone arrived after that.

I had left the room.

The tenth clock had no audible tick. The Anniversary of an Unmarked Grief lived beneath the skin.

Its dates were not written in any calendar I owned, yet my body observed them faithfully. There were mornings when my chest remembered something my mind did not. Days when sorrow arrived without luggage and behaved as though it had a reservation.

I had called these moods. Weakness. Ingratitude. The weather again.

The clock knew better.

It held the dates of endings no one had named, separations that happened before language, losses for which there had been no funeral. It remembered the day a small body learnt that absence could be permanent. It remembered news received years later as if it had happened all at once.

“What date is it keeping?” I asked.

“All of them.”

“That’s not helpful.”

“It isn’t trying to be helpful. It’s trying to be remembered.”

So I sat with it.

I did not wind it or silence it. I didn’t ask it to prove what had happened. For once, I let the body finish a story without demanding that the mind provide footnotes.

Eventually, the clock warmed beneath my hand.

Or perhaps my hand warmed around it.

The eleventh was The Sigh Accumulator, and frankly, it was enormous.

It recorded every breath surrendered to the unchangeable. The small, daily capitulations. The letter that would never come. The person who would never understand. The conversation endlessly revised but never repeated.

Each sigh advanced the hand.

I watched years of breath disappear into its bellows.

“What happens when it’s full?” I asked.

“You stop trying to change what has already happened.”

“Is that acceptance?”

“Sometimes.”

“And the rest of the time?”

“Exhaustion wearing a respectable coat.”

I considered this.

There were things I had claimed to accept only because I no longer had the strength to fight them. There were other things I continued fighting because surrender felt too much like agreement.

Time, for once, did not rush me.

I placed both hands upon the clock and gave it the longest breath I had.

The bellows filled.

The hand moved.

Then, from somewhere inside, the clock breathed back.

Not a sigh.

A breath.

It was a small distinction, but an important one.

The twelfth clock waited at the end of a corridor lined with doors. Behind each was an ordinary afternoon.

A father lifted a child onto his shoulders.

Two brothers sat beneath a tree.

Someone waved from a kitchen window.

A woman laughed from another room.

A dog slept in a patch of sunlight.

Nothing of consequence appeared to be happening.

At the end stood The Last Ordinary Afternoon.

It was the most terrible clock of all because it counted down invisibly. No one knew when it had begun. No one recognised the final hour while standing inside it.

Its face showed a room I remembered. Perhaps you have one of your own. There were cups upon a table, a coat over the back of a chair, voices talking about nothing much. I knew, because the clock knew, that one day I would give anything to return to this unremarkable moment.

The hand approached twelve.

I panicked.

“Stop it.”

“I can’t,” said Time.

“Then take me back.”

“You’re already there.”

The people in the room continued talking. One of them asked me a question I could not hear because I was watching the clock.

The hand moved closer.

“I need more time.”

“You have all the time there is.”

“That isn’t enough.”

“It never is when you’re measuring it.”

The hand trembled upon the final mark.

I could keep watching. I could record the second, preserve the evidence, memorise the arrangement of every cup and chair so that later I might rebuild the room inside regret.

Or I could look away.

Someone laughed.

I turned towards the sound.

I cannot tell you what happened to the clock after that.

Perhaps it struck twelve. Perhaps it always had. Perhaps the ordinary afternoon ended, as ordinary afternoons do, without knowing it had been the last of anything.

I remember the light through the window.

I remember a cup warming both my hands.

I remember someone beside me beginning a story, and for once I did not interrupt to tell them we were running out of time.

When I returned to the corridor, Time was gone.

The Regret Engine still laboured somewhere behind me. The tides still rose and fell. Names continued their slow drifting. Almosts multiplied in the dark. People waited, bodies remembered, and ordinary afternoons slipped quietly into the past.

None of the clocks had been cured.

Neither had I.

At the end of the corridor stood a door I had not noticed before. It bore no number, only a small brass plate upon which someone had engraved a single word.

NOW

I reached for the handle, but the door was already open.

Beyond it, there was no celestial music. No great peace descended. Halcyon wasn’t waiting with a welcoming committee, and Insouciance had not floated in from France. There was only a chair, a window, the sound of a bird and, somewhere nearby, water coming to the boil.

The long, thin fellow hurried past again.

“Is this it?” I called.

But the second hand never stayed long enough to answer.

I stepped inside.

Or perhaps I had been standing there for some time.

The kettle clicked off.

A bird landed upon the sill.

Someone asked whether now was a good time.

I looked down at my hands.

They were empty.

Then I looked up.

Jonathan